Meadow Tree

By David De Jong

He road a blue roan, sweeping across the prairie and plains,
Searching a vision, extraordinary, to some insane.
She came in a dream, at Leaping Wolf’s winter hunting camp.
Warmed by the fire, its flames a transcending, hypnotic, lamp.
The great chief’s pipe was passed, trinkets traded, stories retold.
The smoke lingered in the air, like ghost, from their tales of old.

They called her Meadow Tree, because she was so free and tall,
Silken blonde curls, blowing free with the amber leaves of fall.
She brought them warm wool blankets, muffins, gooseberry preserves,
They loved her for her beauty, but also admired her nerves.
Holding on, to aimless hope, while her husband long since passed,
Taken by the fever, not the prairies first, nor its last.

Smoke took hold; his eyes began to fade into frays of grey.
She beckoned to him in a dream, and quietly walked away.
Wearing a long white dress; trimmed in sea shells, leather, and lace,
Deep emerald eyes, long dark lashes, blonde wisps held her face.
He woke in a start, his heart pounding, gasping, just because,
She was an angel, without a doubt, if ever there was

“Come find me, bring me home” is what she whispered in his dream.
Words that rolled in his mind like snow melt, rushing through a stream.
He couldn’t rest till he found her, longing to hold her, he must.
Her cabin; empty, shelves bare, except for spiders, and dust.
Just then, a Diamond Back grabbed his thigh as his boots hit wood,
Meadow Tree reached for his hand, in the doorway, where she stood.

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