I know a girl who still has the Wild in her eyes.
She craves the dirt and sand under her hand,
whispers to plants sweet words,
outstretches the other arm to beckon a small woodland creature.
I see this girl who is still Wild at heart.
She sings in the torrential downpour,
making musical references as the climate shifts around her
into a hazy summer evening, rainbows above
as she lifts her head in prayer.
Sometimes I still hear this girl of the Wild.
She reminds me that leaves are just the lungs of trees,
that the air and ground are filled with their screams
it’s just that humans don’t know how to listen,
except for her grandmother who somehow knew How.