What Lurks In The Wild Heart?
For Wild Flower
I imagine you sitting at the edge of a mountain
facing the open seas, calling out to whichever
God willing to hear you, asking for just a moment
of his or her time.
You are cautious with your words, you are certain
they will not sting, will not harm, will not hurt.
This God knows this.
You call to the soniferous birds, the ones who squawk
when they hear the beckoning sound of
the one before them.
They obey your summons, your incredible gift
to mesh with their environment, yet never attempt
to make it your own completely.
You visit, leave bits of your heart for the taking,
then wander off to the next destination.
What lurks in the wild heart? The heart that
never knows when to stop moving —
to stop loving, to give and give and reveal itself
even in the dark?
You could leave and reappear and
the world would stand with open arms
waiting to embrace you one more time.
How great your soul must be to flow through
your bones, unwilling to strike the hardest blow
at an evil one. You have your ways, you’ll
kill them with words, but do so tactfully.
You know the strength of the tongue —
its bold way of thrashing upon its victim
without fair warning.
You wield it carefully.
And I have watched you grow from
a somewhat shy woman to an all-encompassing
Venus among us stars and I know
how jealous the sun can be.
I know he wants what you can give us —
you keep it hidden from his view.
The thrill of besting your goals and
creating new ones for the future
has to be the ultimate gift.
I would turn over a bed of coals,
test their temperature, and
sit my frozen fingertips over their
heat just to get even a glimpse
of your spirit.
Of your existence.
What lurks in the wild heart?
What, if not the knowing of
one’s purpose and why it needs the energy
of its surroundings to tread along
its path?
Travel on, Wild One, but remember
to come back home.
Author’s Note: I have been reading Wild Flower for close to four years now and I remember when she popped up on Medium with a head full of dreads, an inviting smirk, and words that forced you to read them. She is the first person to tell me, “You need to do more audio poems, Tre” and that was way back in 2016. If you are not reading her, trust me, you should be. Clay Rivers, yours will be next.
Peace.
