Wild Like Me

It’s hard to reconcile being wild sometimes, the feral hunger.  The seeking eyes, the instincts that lead one to survive.

The shapeshifting in twilight when it’s dark enough to see more colors, and Iight enough to illuminate the way forward. 

Star-kissed riverbeds and spectral skies.  Emerald trees and non­-linear time.  Magenta plumes and lavender moons.

Wandering alone except for the spirits who dance around me in recognition: wild like me, beautiful and free to ornament the tapestry of the aethers, 

the fabric of magic, the dawn and dusk that never fade.  A lightness of being in a melancholy ballet.

For try as spirits may, they can never touch the skin of love, or feel the pulsing of a pith through finger tips.  

They cannot feel tears on dewy cheeks, or feel a face crease with a smile.  Dirt under toenails from running through forests. Tree bark under arms emb­racing the wonder. 

To bathe in pristine rivers and streams untouched by foreign machines. Sweet seeds stuck between teeth, and the exquisite pain of physical needs 

to feast and drink and sleep.  To yearn for another to be near.  The bliss of satiety when a need is met.

The wetness of water makes sense when becoming a part of you. The texture of food is a language on a tongue when the two become one. 

The bliss in an embrace when a body has purpose, the reason to incarnate at all.  The reason winged creatures fall.

My wild spirit has a body now, and I don’t always know how to be tame enough to have grace.  

The part of me that remembers where I come from explodes within when a glimmer of home is heard in a creative stream from another’s lips, or the twilight sparkle in another’s eyes.

Will I ever be able to give others peace in my presence when I can hardly give it to myself in this place of domestication?  

When too much civilization sparks the primordial surge of remembrance of where we began here: 

in harmony with the land, primal fire fueling new life.  The sacred hunt of only hands and a knife carved from mountain stone, cultivating what it really means to be home.

Even with our illusions of control, we’re all hanging by a thread and vulnerable.  

For all exists in a delicate balance that we may earn the right to belong to the whole.

Copyright © Sheyorah Naify, 2021

Art: Rose’s Dragon by Rob Carlos

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