"i walk around with the smudge stick and make little altars"
Ragged memories of lives and loves and lessons,
So long ago it might not even be this life I remember;
Haunting me with whispers of dreams and songs
Sung when I believed in the prayers chanted
In late autumn under canopies of silk and wheat.
Lost keepsakes and shadows of cobwebs
Make little altars to sweet innocence,
To times when laughter escaped from the wilderness;
When no ghosts of smiles lingered behind the doors
And you didn't have to cleanse my scent with smudge sticks.