Roaming Wilds

I was born in the wilds,

hiding from the wolves,

roaming with the elk.

I waded in the river,

catching dinner

with my bare

hands and teeth

like the mountainly

beasts I watched

from the treetops

in the spring when

the salmon

swam upstream

and the dandelions

turned to dust

in the breeze.

I lived in the

land as much

as it lived in me.

I never called it home

until it was gone

and I felt lost —

wandering

somewhere on a

nameless street,

and a stranger asked me

if I missed the

place I used to roam.

Home, you mean?

It will never be

the same, but it still lives

in me.

And, sometimes, I think

there’s a print

of my bare feet

yet to be cleansed

from the land,

so I, too, still live

within it.

In the rose garden,

when I breathe

the ripe scent

of spring,

a bittersweet feeling

washes over me

as I recall

my wilds

before the smoke

and ash, before is

became was

and the wolves,

and the elk,

and the dandelions,

and the beasts

who catch salmon

with their bare hands,

and the human

who leaves prints

with their feet,

were excised,

forced to find

new wilds

to roam.