There is wildness here,
Raw and raging
Beneath this exterior,

There are visions here
Of soaring over lifetimes
Of leaf-filled trees
And rust-colored hills
Over yellow fields
Over oceans

There is forgetting here
Of the small things people say,
The small things people do

There is a last angry echo
Of the unheard voice
The deeper self
The truer self
The wilder self
That wearies of all
Man-made things

There is a silence here
That grows and infuses
Like the melancholy tint
Of an old photograph,
An old photograph
You walk around in,
Examining with wonder
The frozen, yet flowing
Moments of a life

There is a wildness here
That rises like an immense stone,
Floating impossibly
In the pure blue sky
Of a secret spring.