Where the Wild

The wind moves like an old song,

threading through open fields,

stirring the quiet things awake.

Here, among the untamed, the unbroken,

the earth breathes in color—

gold, violet, ember-red—

a fire that does not burn, only blooms.

I have seen how the roots refuse to be told

where they may or may not belong,

how they weave through stone and silence,

turning even the forgotten places

into something alive again.

And maybe that’s what we are—

wild in ways we don’t yet understand,

aching toward the light

with hands that have never been taught

how to stay still.

But then—

the sky sighs, the earth shifts,

and I realize:

it is not about belonging at all.

Not about waiting to be chosen,

or bending to fit what was never meant for us.

It is about growing anyway.

Taking up space in the way the stars do,

without apology, without fear.

So let the wind carry what it must.

Let the rain come and go.

We are not here to be tamed.

We are here to bloom.