The Last January Stone

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.



About wrensong

I am a poet who collects stones. I am a wanderer of creek beds and forests, canyons and high desert who, coming home, sometimes finds words to tell the story. I am a companion with others in the search for Deep, Wild Soul. I shape containers in time and space for others to come together to write, to tell their stories, to hold each other in the telling. I am a grandmother and the companion of a cat named Alaya. I often travel out into open country with a man who calls himself Dunewalker who has hung his hammock in my heart.
This entry was posted in A River of Stones, aros, Small Stones, The River and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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