Dear Native American Women,
I’ve always longed to see the autumn sunrays, embracing your rich honey complexion. It melts into your cherry-blushed cheeks like the soft caresses of a perfectly crafted feather. Your enchanting rhythm of kneading in radiance is an arrow of affection, striking at my heart from a distant afar.
Tracing upon the plains and valleys of the great frontier of your reserved landscape, I realize there’s nothing more delightful than a lone wildflower, accentuated in the open country of lush green pastures. Your fragrance infuses the air with a swift gust of wind as the rush reveals the natural flow of your stallion’s mane. I watch on as you continue your dances in the rain, amid the mystical melodies of the forest that capture my every dream.
This fall is a journey of canoeing through the clearest waters; a pathway towards romance in a constant stream of love. The mist floating about its purity is your spirit that encompasses mine. As your graceful movements draw near, I feel the fringes of your tunic, grazing upon my skin like the running of fingertips along grasslands far and wide. Sweet flavours of your maple kiss seep into my veins, but at the slightest touch of lips, I find myself being held captive by your tribe.
Passing through the gauntlet of torture, I hope you understand that I’d do anything for you. I’d gamble my life with a basket of potentially poisonous berries and even give away the last piece of buffalo jerky to win your savage heart. Seeing your precious tears, my only wish is to touch them away, gently dabbing them in fear of smearing your exquisitely painted face.
But the torment is finally over, and I’ve impressed your clan mother, especially with the bribe of animal crackers for the great council of mighty shamans. Winning them over, a pow-wow begins in celebration of us, while hearts are opened with a treaty of peace and harmony.
Night songs and stories of otters and wolves; the warming campfire becomes the only separation between our gaze. I feel a little closer to you every time we get high with a smoking puff of peyote, for your smiles and laughter are all that I desire.
Dear Native American Women, though I must bear gifts to purchase our marriage, remember that the token of our love is invaluable. And you might think the only reason I want you is for fear of getting hit by a cactus. You might even think that I’m a spy on a mission to infiltrate your village, but I’m Canadian, baby!
My Aboriginal warrior princess and darling prickly pear, you’re my First woman and medicine of wonder, curing me of all heartaches. You’re the prairie in my heart to cherish for a lifetime, and our pictograph will be a sign of our romance for now and evermore.
Together, I shall erect my totem pole inside your tepee, to cultivate and harvest little babies, and create a tribe of our own.
Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba means I love you.
Yours,
Ricky, a.k.a. Squeaking with Wheels
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