A silver shield—
not polished,
but burnished with time,
like moonlight caught in stone.
This is not a banner of conquest,
but of endurance.
At its center: a fox,
mid-step, not snarling—
alert, alive,
the patron saint of disappearing
without being lost.
She knows the back ways,
the soft ground,
the difference between retreat
and wisdom.
Beneath her paws:
wild thyme and yarrow,
not roses—never roses.
I want the plants that heal quietly,
that...
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