Dreaming in the Bison's Meadow

[LynnDoiron]

The sky is falling through the stars
above these hills, this meadow,
and there are places where night leaves
footprints on the prairie grass,
scuffing off the dewdust with drizzles
of a deeper dark. We have six miles
in the going and the coming back
and will group to make ourselves look bigger
in the instance of our introduction
to some big cat or another that thinks
she owns the places of the day,

the places of the woods. They say
to keep eye contact with a cougar, wave
sticks, don’t run. We ask the rangers
what should be done
with phantoms,
the ones who shake the stars
in passing, quiver stretches of long grasses
just beyond our tent flaps. Old soldiers, they—

one carrying his right foot
like a baby in his arms, the other
holding forth his liver like a knight
proffers his sword to an honored liege.

Why do I dream us to this place, sister?
Is it here that we will make our stand,
wounded wind in our faces? Or will we
tat the fallen sky into holier tomorrows,
craft blankets for our backs? There!
the lioness of dusk cries out, I own no more
of sky than you! If only we believed in lionese.
If only we believed.

[lavonne]

Enjoyed this introspective poem, Lynn.
Especially liked the last lines:

the lioness of dusk cries out, I own no more
of sky than you! If only we believed in lionese.
If only we believed.

[LynnDoiron]

Lavonne?! Thank you. I had completely and 100% forgotten this poem. It wasn't until I got to the right foot and the liver carried by the old soldiers that I remembered. All else seems so far removed from me, but it is mine, and I think I dreamed, then journaled, then this came out of it all somehow. Thanks, again for bringing it back to my attention. And what a surprise to see you here . . . A welcome surprise! lynn