valsombraI think, sometimes, that writing is a kind of ritual; that one must take up their pen or sit down at their keyboard and summon the wild thing that lives inside them; their child self, immortal and undying, to whom all music is passion, all stories are true, and all patterns are magic.
a summoning of the self
where is the little girl
with mud on her face
feathers in her hair
and a necklace made of flowers
o' wild thing, I call to you
it's time for songs and stories
where is the little girl
who speaks with the storms
and holds counsel with cats
while the cicadas sing
o' wild thing, I call to you
it is time to come forth
where is the little girl
who was left behind
the one who lives
in the wilds within
o' wild thing, I call to you
and make my hands yours