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.

Photo by Jennifer Martin