by the need to be known. I am not talking
billboards or spotlights or glorious acclaim.
I’d give all of that a whirl but then surrender it
for a deep-set pair of eyes capable of predicting
the sway of my silhouette before it catches light.
For a sturdy set of hands that know how to trace
the geography of myself without folded paper
roadmaps or owner’s manuals or test drives.
I do not care if this earth ever hears my name.
I do not wish to be worshipped like a distant god;
it is not in my nature to become holy icon. Just
pull me closer. Know me like second language.
Like coming home as a child, late June and dizzy
on firefly dusk, mother’s voice calling smoothly
through the flimsy screen of the kitchen window.
It is time. Know me as a place of endless returning.
Know me in the same way the wild knows you.

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