How the trees murmur
like serious doves to their
waning leaves in their leaving…
You must
let go, child. Fly.
Silent as a Sylph the joining breaks,
the umbilical veins from tree to foliage
sever and you can never
turn back.
Does it hurt to land?
Maybe. But perhaps no
more
than it pains us
to grow.
J. Pratt-Walter, © 2021
The wild geese hone their language
over the Columbia slough, spearing the voices
of wildness into my chest, sharp and alive.
If you can marvel with me how
their wild orations turn the season,
you are my kindred Autumn soul.
Come meet me here on the Plains of Untamed
Mystery. We need no name for each other
there but friend, but pilgrim, but God.
J. Pratt-Walter, © 2021
