Wildlings

My wildlings are grown and venturing forth without me.  They stretch tall and curved and look down on me from inches above.  But sometimes, with a quiet rhythm of remembered movement, they will slip their hand into mine and I cherish the warmth of their precious skin on my own.

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And I Said

I said: I will race through the grass with nothing between the ground and my toes but naked flesh and I will lose my breath to the wild wind as I dart without direction.

And they said, You will not.

I said: I will hitch up my skirts and plunge into the flinty water, wading until my thighs are hidden and tingling with icy warmth.

And they said, You will not.

I said: I will open my mouth wide and I will sing.  The song may be tuneless or it may please, like a bird’s, but it is my song and it can be heard.

And they said, You will not.

I will laugh without inhibition.          You will not.

I will ask and I will be answered.       You will not.

I will be seen and I will be heard.      You will not.

I said: I will be heard.