There is a place I frequent for my morning walks
That has a stretch of meadow
Where the trail is thin
Hemmed in closely by
Brambles
Briars
Poison ivy
Queen Anne’s Lace
Milkweed
And countless others that I can’t identify (yet).
When I walk there
A little part of me pretends
I am Laura Ingalls Wilder
Out alone on the
Vast prairie
Sniffing the air for the rains
Listening for the thud of buffalo hooves
Catching my skirts on prickers.
I feel lively
Bold
Delightfully isolated
Even though when I focus on it
I can hear traffic
Seeping into my quiet space.
I greet each bird that swoops low over the tangles.
My boots crush grasses with each step.
I walk my way back through the years and the pages
To the plains
Of my childhood.
The same little girl who longed to be on the banks of Plum Creek
Still seeks trails and stream crossings
Now as a grown-up.
I still want a sod house
A fiddle song on a snowy night
And quilts made from family history.
I know that my Wilder world is idealized
Leaves out the pain
The uncomfortable truths of living in that time and place.
I don’t pretend it is perfect,
A place I would rather be.
But I do pretend that my meadow path
Continues out of sight
Over the rise of the prairie
And down to the creek and the willows
Where I can sit,
Watching swallows dip
Watching fish rise to the surface at dusk
Hearing the crickets,
Deafening in their symphony
And where I spy my little house
A thin curl of smoke rising from it
At the other end of my
Meadow trail.
