The Call Home

Look at this wild one
capering at the cliff’s edge,
knee-deep in lavender
and maiden grass,
bare foot, bare-chested,
scrap of deerskin
knotted around her hips

so small and sure
of her belonging
in the family of things.

Mothered by the moon,
watched over by the white wolf,
no agreements
but to be held by the earth
and guided by the tide song.

She approaches,
holding you
in her simple, steady gaze,
a conch shell in her hands.
“For listening,” she says,
offering it.

You take it,
put it to your ear,
tuning to the deepest point
in the spiral,
where the truth uncoils,
gently, sinuously,
filling head then heart,
body and being,
with the call home
to your own
fierce unruly soul.