I
still walk these paths in my dreams,
the
old trails that weave through my life
my
roots always exposed,
the
totems of my passing on every side
wearing
faces I no longer recognize
as
my own,
sweat
lodge brothers gone now
from
days when we hunted together,
not
buffalo or deer
but
some more illusive game
we
could never identify,
I
can’t even now
when
my brother has moved on
and
I age here waiting for the call
that
would bring me
to
that sacred hunting ground
so
that we might hunt together again
What
can this thing be
that
we would waste our youth
in
its pursuit
or
has age made me no wiser
that
my feet and heart
pursue
it still
tripping
over these same roots
drawing
up the same pain
I
thought had passed
wisdom,
I learn,
does
not come with age
merely
from experience
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