g r a c e
(wolves mate for life)

poetry home



Grey-brown, I
move silent among
trees in this
scattered twilight,
ears back and slow.
Scent on cold
air sharpens
teeth and raises
hackles, low
howl pinpoints
movement and
direction. I
intrude here,
need pushing
boundaries open
to few,
solitude broken
by instinct.
I stop and wait,
supplicant, surprise,
scent closer still,
I am not expected.
Eyes graze mine
and I fall,
belly to god,
I am yours.
Milk stars gather
as you surround
me and I descend
from grace
silently, eyes closed.
I belong now,
and the soil
beneath me
smells sweet.

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