I’m thankful for the wild things.
The dew that slicks the blades of grass,
the bee at his work,
the birds who fill the air with song,
the kits in their den dreaming of play
and the deer in the meadow bathed in snow –
outside my door,
a whole world turns not in days and hours,
but in moments,
seasons and sensations.
In the changing of the leaves,
the rising and setting sun,
these little lives go on and on
until they don’t,
and then, like a breath between words,
they’re gone.
How much we could learn
from the brave, wild things,
if we’d only each take time
to wait and watch,
to sit patiently with
the silence before the storm,
the crickets’ evening concerto,
the breeze through the fields,
the morning’s cacophony.
They exist, not for us to see
as a space apart,
but with us, in us.
We, too, could be brave, wild things.
We know it in our hearts.