we, her children,
understand so little.

though the lines on her face may change 
with every silver shift of moonlight,
though the edges of her body may soften with each passing winter, 
       and sharpen with each treacherous carving of spring,
though her vision may cut clear across the miles, 
                                       the howl of a wolf to an infinite horizon,
though her dreams may shimmer 
                                   and float, 
                                               viridescent, bright gossamer crowning her head,

what holds her close to this tender-skinned earth is


with roots thicker than warm red cedars,
deeper than whalesong or the black boundary of the stars.
she is a whispered commandment: remember.


just because she is still 
does not mean she 
is not wild.
Current Novel Word Count: 16,690 
What I'm Writing: Not much right now. Might do some revisions on my 
short story by the end of this month, but I always forget how busy the 
holidays get and I refuse to be hard on myself in this, the year of our 
Lord 2020.
Weird Writerly Topics I've Googled This Week: nothing lately.
Writing Exercises I've Done: Nothing lately. 
What I'm Reading: Native by Kaitlin Curtice, The House of the Spirits by 
Isabel Allende. 
What I'm Listening To:"Champagne Problems" by Taylor Swift, "Your Peace 
Will Make Us One" by Audrey Assad ft. Urban Doxology, "River" by Joni 

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