“You must change your life”
echoed inside my head
as I dug the oddly fragrant roots,
finding my way through rocks and
chunks of decaying, pine-needle humus. …
The strange T-square shape where the
rhizome and the aerial shoot join
held me in its abrupt right angles—
I paused and watched cloud-white
blood ooze from its wounds, toxic as it was
it seemed nourishing, friendly.
The allure of the wild is
the upwelling, bubbling soul
inside us aching outwards;
each animal and rock and tree
a fragment of our selves lost
and discovered freshly in the
reflective mind of the observing one.
We are whole
in our ability to take in;
the vessel of our wondering
to accept the staggering nuance
of the crow-bitten universe.
Coyote’s howl is at once
alarming and beckoning;
some part of us needs
to shout at the moon
in a frenzy of yipping laughter
and eat amongst a ravenous
hoard of fur and teeth.
To be alive
is to chase the wild redeemer.