My Aspen is in South America, as most of you know; She is my hero, a hero of my making, forged from raw earth, trails pounded by deer, prayers wrapped in corn husk, out of fear that is thrown away with every inch of soil removed to bury the dead, hammered out with yards of disappointment into a golden Goddess, and her beauty makes longed-hair-cloud-maker-Kachinas jealous that she is not one of them.
Don’t mess with a woman that hummingbirds follow and get their hearts broken wondering, wishing why, why, why, she isn’t a flower,
I have seen fellows spend their last dime to hold on to her for one more moment as she walks away into the corners of another heart.
Per our last conversation, I can feel and hear her transformations, massive bounds and leaps.
Grande metamorphosis that can easily escape you like water trying to grasp on to them.
Much like me at that age, I was in love with love and in love with my simple life; I still am pretty hopeless when the wild is in full-bloom in the spring time after a long winter. Everything is a potential moment of heart interaction, from the sunset-landscape in the sea of sage, to the morning dew, that is how life should be.
Aspen has traveled seen things that I probably will never touch and for sure what 95% of the pueblo people will never ever get to see…
There is one life and one love. If you don’t kick it first in the ass and tame it down, it is obliged to kick you in your pathetic ass. Read More→