Monday, June 2, 2014


She is wild,
and unkempt,
She washes her hair
in the cold mountain stream
and the inky blackness of night,
Shaking it madly, fiercely,
Droplets of rainwater becoming
stars on the velvet-sky
of her life,
She sleeps beneath the
Nestled in a tree
as if she were but a very tiny
Stretching, languid,
in the buttercup softness
of morning light,
Her skin is scrubbed free of
civilization by sand, dirt,
grasses - tall and overgrown,
She smells of honeysuckle
and autumn winds,
Lips full and red - as if
nettles had grown beneath her skin, 
She sings with the wolves
and dances upon the nimbus
of freedom,
She speaks every language
except domestication,
She is the wild woman who lives
deep in my bones,
& I am trying to set her free