Let it be the Mountain she finds Holy—
not because it sparkles,
seduces her
or speaks in riddles,

but because its dark loamy soil
receives her bare feet like a memory.

A prairie hill above the sea,
where grasses bow and whisper,
and the wind carries the salt and scent of things
too old for names—
that’s where the house stands.
Not built from stone,
but from time.
And longing.

And the laughter of those
who once remembered Eden.

Let her dig down,
as if the roots of a wildflower
were waiting to rise through her skin,
lifting her slowly from within—
the stem, the pistil,
the fragile yet indestructible bloom.
Let the soil speak to her in silence,
saying:

You are still loved.
You are still alive.
You are not what happened to you.

Let her turn toward the sun—
not in shame,
but in radiant defiance—
and know in that moment
where her help truly comes from.

Let her running to the mountain
be joy, not dread.
Let her ascent be not an exile,
but a return.

Let her wings unfold brazenly,
as the daughter of the living God.
Not tucked.
Not hidden.
Not compromised.

She does not belong to the mountain that mocks love
and feeds on the ruin of hearts,
or exploits that which is still unhealed

She belongs here—
where her own flesh and bone
become not only family
but friend,
through the common bond
of the soil that gives life to all who dare to sink into it.

She belongs
where peace lives in warm light on cold nights,
where cotton sheets smell of soap and skin,
and starlight sifts through trees
like the hush of forgiveness.

Let her remember her first love..
before the theft,
before the theater.
Before the wound.

Let her toes remember
what it was to wiggle in the dirt
of something unbroken,
unshamed,
true.

Let her find home again—
not in a place carved out for her,
but in the space she reclaims
with her own rootedness.

Let her petals unfold slowly in the sun—
but only with her feet deep in the mountain's soil,
where others also have planted their lives,
becoming one
in harmony of breath and memory and Grace.

She will not enter into a sepulcher
or a place that makes usury of her pain.
She will stand on the mount before the rising sun—
alone if she must,
but never abandoned.

And somewhere in the hush between
the breeze and the soil,
she may yet feel

the quiet echo
of someone still with her.

reveries of sun-drenched prairies;
windswept under cottony clouds
golden-yellow in summery indolence

To see the Big Dipper
In the prairie provinces
How clear this diamonds you be
A bright
With not light
In sight
What I night in
The bucket list

Saskatchewan
Is the most surreal
Province there is
Building that look like school
Milk cartons
It does not get that wonderful
It does not get that surreal
Strange
Or
Beautiful
Tall milk cartoons
Sticking out of no where
How alien

On a late summer
Night in the prairies
The Big dipper
Is bright
Clears as a swear word
Turn up the volume of the
Sounds of nature
And night.

How can I sleep

A wild rider through the prairies of life, extending to far horizons,
in my veins the true spirit of intergalactic nomads, stardust,
from many past lives brims; it sets the tone of my enduring quest.
My  indefatigable steed, and me are one in our thoughts and heart.

Through her changing  hues and moods, nature speaks to me, inspires
drenched in moon beams, to the uplands we would  traverse,
then come the slopes descending to deep pits and dark hollows,
my prairie homestead, tucked away in that valley distant,to me
is a dream mysterious; dense solitude keeps it for me as a secret.

A miraculous herb, I found by chance, among the flora rich,
keeps thirst and hunger at bay, and the quest continues unhindered,
low hanging fat, white, clouds change the display in varied forms,
to regale us as we cross the badlands, that try to bog us down in vein.

Love caressed me at times,like gentle wind,once a whirlwind
made me lose bearing,with a thorn made a slash across my heart,
love is a sweet pain, but losing a beloved, a crusted ugly scar,
but the traveler is in a trance, still led by the pole star's lonely light,

The bows and arrows I destroyed after long  introspection,
herds of bison as I pass would notice,see me empty handed,
stand still as if in a guard of honor, to watch me pass with a smile                     
Still night, embellished by starlight, sung lullabies to us weary souls.
my steed and I go diving deep,hungrily in to the pool of sleep
                                                           ­                                       
**Sleep, wakefulness, day and night; all encased within a dream.
I, my steed and the lives the prairie embraces, and the galaxy  are one.

Manitoban Skies

Clouds are the mountains of the prairies
Towering cumulonimbus masses
Incredible backdrops across an otherwise plain blue sky
Warning call that rainstorms may approach
Vertical reminders of atmospheric instability
Jetted upwards into vast formations stretching miles and miles
Promises of unrelenting lighting and thunder
Cinematic sequences is country folk are lucky to view
Humidity in the summer, ah
What would we do without you?
Rolling clouds are a fair trade for the lack of rolling hills
Clouds are the mountains of the prairies.