The Wild
Black is the night; no stars shine down with heaven’s light.
Red embers dance in the fire’s warm glow,
mocking the cold white depth of ice and snow.
A song drifts softly on the winter breeze,
echoing through the waiting boughs and leaves
the owl’s call from the mighty tree.
“Who?” it asks.
Does it speak of me?
Does it wish to know my name, my home;
why through its quiet lands I freely roam?
Does it seek the longing of my heart’s desire,
why I sit and ponder by the crackling fire?
For I seek more in this still, quiet place
than a warm hearth or winter’s icy embrace.
I dream of times the world has left behind
simple joys beneath a blackened sky,
embers swirling before my eyes,
the lantern’s soft gold spilling through the night,
timbers stout and soaring tall in firelight.
So fetter not my heart nor hands;
for a little while I’ll roam these wild lands.
Yet soon I’ll return on a sunlit morn,
for between two worlds my heart is torn.
To live the dreams of days long past is sweet,
but home still calls my wandering feet.
Back to daily toil I shall abide
these memories my treasure and my pride
and cage again my restless, wilder side,
until once more in the wild I can reside.
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