There is wildness here,
Raw and raging
Beneath this exterior,
Pulsing.
There are visions here,
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 the unheard voice
Of 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.
~ Russ Allison Loar
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