Whispering Wyrd

For so long I drifted in a darkness deeper than any sea
Despair stuck to me like a cold chill, whispering that I would never be free.
Hope, then a  fragile ember, had dimmed to ash,
and ancient demons, hungry mouthed and hollow eyed,
fed on the marrow of my spirit.

Then the mountains called.
We came to this high desert where the sky breathes prayers of blue,
and I felt the first warmth of dawn pierce my long night.
Here, I breathe freely. I walk freely on sacred Earth,
and at last, I am home.

“Santa Fe is a good place for healing,” the people say
and it is true. I have walked out of the prison
built of addiction and fear, and left the rusted keys behind.

Now the wind wraps me in its songs and whispers my name.
Ravens fly above, messengers of change,
their black wings stitching hope into the wide sky.
The forests and the streams open their arms,
inviting me to rest and heal in their green and silver embrace.

I speak my gratitude and thanks out loud
to stone and stream, to feather and root,
to the seen and the unseen, the human and more-than-human.
Healing is a conversation, and I am listening now.
We are nature, and nature is us.