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There is a deep pang in my soul today; a void that longs to be filled.

My essence is the baleful howl of the lone, searching wolf; I ache to be heard, and the body answered.

A chapter in my life has ended, the quill still drips though the well is dry.

The parchment crisp, crinkles as the hand smooths the page, my mind burning to create sound, a clarion call to the unknown one that whispers future promises from the edge of sleep,

or dictate words that burn deliciously, a heat to pull you to me through air, moist sky, this fog that sears; I cannot see you.

This searching with only the blind third eye leaves the hearing to soul’s ears, while tiny hairs alert, enthralled by your energy, vibrations tensile and near; as yet to manifest.

Encountered in dreams; skin on skin, tumbling, pressing the life from the last meadow flowers, grass stained and mud cleansed we rut like buffalo after the first fall rain,

musk and honey, lavender and sweat, a gift on the altar of the Mother.

You, taut like an arrow in the notch before springing free to land home, my hands entwined in hair like a raven’s wing, I remember us. We were before.

We can be, again, if you will answer. It is not too late, as long as I draw breath.

Bring my ink, the well is waiting.