Wild Soul comes like some red-bellied, long-beaked bird pecking under the old bark of you searching for grubs of Regret. Not rebuke but gift.
*So you missed some days, some moments, some stones, some tears, some terrors, some conversations, some Mysterious gift. . .or poem. So your cambium houses morsels of unfinished task. She will come, I promise you, in her stark feathers and sharp nail of a beak to feast under your skin. This is the good news. It’s not too late.