One By One, They Come From Their Wildness.

Morning meetings with the ghosts of poets wherein she recounts unspeakable beauties: 

 





















"How do you heal the animal pain so the soul may live?", the poet asks.
 
She blinks once slowly then responds...

"With the rising sun, with the celestial dance, with the silvering moonlight, with wild things, with the feathering of sky, with the beat of the drum, with the music of ice, with the voices of trees, with the laughter of children, with the salt of my tears, with breath and with paint, with ache and with dance...

with my nearly 7 billion billion billion atoms
with my 85 billion neurons
with my 10 trillion cells...

and with the ghosts of poets"

She feels a kiss on her cheek and turns her head toward the door.

The fox, with impeccable timing, emerges from the woods and prances directly to her door. She slides to her knees and asks, "Is there nothing more beautiful than fox and snow?"

The poets nod knowingly, clutching their diaphanous hearts.

Once upon a time there was a girl who lived in NYC.  She carried a piece chalk in her pocket to leave messages for friends on the sidewalk when she passed by their homes.  The girl left her city for a nest in the forest where she shape-shifted into mother then crone.  On this particular wintery day, after her morning meeting, she stepped outside and found message from a feathered friend upon her snowy stoop.

It reads,

Dear Wendy,
Take the road less traveled. 
Love,
Chickadee