She calls to me in the depths of my slumber, enticing me to rise before the sun, to meet her at the water's edge, to play in the warm shallows as the day begins, to dry myself as the summer heat begins to rise. Butterflies dance, alighting on the wild forget-me-nots blooming on the bank.
She calls to me when the rains fall, asking me to meet her beneath the ancient white oak. She weaves a wreath of vine and flower into my soaking hair. We run through the forest hand in hand.
Roots and wings
She calls me to the edge of the bluff, the valley spread out below us and encourages me to step off. She has given me wings to soar, and instincts to guide me on my way back home.
She calls to me when I work in my garden, digging in the soil, black dirt beneath my fingernails, smudges across my face. My feet grow roots and they mingle with those of the rose and peony, holding the soil in place, keeping me grounded.
My wild nature is sacred. When she speaks, I promise to answer her call.
Until next time...
Anne