“When the Earth Wore Her Wildness”

When the Earth wore her wildness,
she did not ask for permission.
She walked barefoot into thunder,
and the storm paused —
just long enough
to let her pass.

Her name was not written in ink,
but in rivers,
in the spiral of shells,
in the slow bloom of moss
over stones that had forgotten sunlight.

She came with no language,
only rhythm—
the pulse of roots speaking
to sky-bound leaves,
the hush of fern-fringed mornings
when even the birds
whispered.

She did not seek a mirror.
She knew her shape
in the way the horizon curved
to hold her gaze,
in how petals unfolded
when she breathed.

Hair woven from midnight rivers.
Skin kissed by soil and storm.
Eyes the color of dusk
before the stars remember their names.

She carried time in her spine—
not the kind that ticks and runs,
but the kind that waits.
The kind that lingers.
The kind that turns silence
into ceremony.

She was the hymn
between lightning strikes,
the sigh that lingers
after the last bell,
the inhale before falling.

Men called her wild.
Women called her free.
But the Earth —
the Earth called her daughter.

She once sat with the wind,
asked it where it had been.
And it told her:
"Everywhere you’ve buried your hurt."
"Everywhere you’ve sung your truth."

She listened
like roots listen:
without needing
to be seen.

She made altars of river stones
and laced them with
berry-stained wishes.
She lit fires,
not for warmth,
but for memory.

The ash told stories
she had forgotten
she carried.

They said she was too much:
Too loud.
Too soft.
Too fierce.
Too tender.

So she stopped folding.
Stopped shrinking.
Stopped dimming.

She learned to become sky.

Clouds gathered in her laugh.
Birdsong nested in her ribs.
And the moon carved its phases
onto her fingertips.

Her sorrow was not weakness—
it was tide,
pulling,
releasing,
reshaping the shore
with every grief she dared to hold.

She did not fear her darkness.
She entered it with open arms,
mined it for gold,
for fireflies,
for the words that refused to be caged.

Each shadow had a name.
Each wound had a song.
And she sang them
until they bloomed.

Her body was not a cage—
it was a cathedral.
And every curve,
every scar,
was stained glass
for the sun to pass through.

She did not belong to anyone—
but everything belonged to her.
The trees knew her footsteps.
The wolves howled her name.
The rain bowed at her crown.

And yet—
she was never cruel.
Only wild.
Only true.

She stitched forgiveness
into the sky
each time the world forgot
how to love her.

She didn’t break.
She unraveled.
Gracefully.
Deliberately.
And when she rewove herself,
she used stardust
and honey
and bones.

Yes—bones.
Because she knew
there is beauty
in building yourself
from what remains.

She became the story
that could not be erased.
The verse that lingered
after the book closed.

She was legend.
Not because of her glory,
but because of her becoming.

The Earth wore her wildness—
and called it holy.