Wound Wood

There is a calling I kindled in the dark house;
not a place I visit but my first home.
In that seed space, a yearning arose.
It cried out in a voice I recognized but could not yet know,
with a language older than our human throats.
I hear it even now echoing
in the murmur of water over stone
and the bright chatter through the glass,
in the dry warning rattle of the leaves,
trees dying all around me
deep rooted though they are
in soil cracked open, a dusty gasping for relief.

There is a calling I kindled in the dark house;
not a place I visit but my final home.
In that barrow space, I arose.
I cried out in my own voice and it was not ours alone.
You hear it even now
thundering in the tide flooding your false houses,
wailing through the cracks as your spirits sunder,
murmuring in your blood as courage fails you–
a gasp in quiet relief as you
let it be Done.

There is a calling I kindled in the dark house.
May it burn.