It's endless. It's eternal. The word "soul" forms on my tongue.
Like anything inherent, it doesn't have to be spoken.
My hands cradle a wildflower. Or rub the bark of a tree.
It's a wilderness where every snapped twig, rustle of brush,
suggests the presence of something other than myself
and yet it still feels as if the crack of my bones,
the rustle of my nerves, has spoken.
I know the way back but I am still lost. Not by location's
standards. But like a bird is lost in its own instinct.
I come at the forest's beckoning, depart at its bequest.