Messages From Carrie
The Congregation of Wild Things
December 12th, 2006
What you whispered that night
Stopped me short.
Not that I was surprised
For I'd long suspected
And often seen the indicators
That you were never a tamed woman,
Given to wildness, vivid dreams, water deep longings
And having a deer like ability,
To catch small movements
On the periphery of vision,
Never fully domesticated.
I paused in the manner of respect
One gives an undeserved tenderness,
The silent space we reserve in reverence
To an unguarded truth, an intimacy
or allowance into the secret heart.
In a crowded room
Humming with conversation
Glasses, rum and paper plates
You leaned forward and quietly told me
That every Christmas and New Year's Eve
After the children are in bed
And your husband,
With whom you share most
But not all things of importance
Is fully asleep
You slip outside into the blue night air
Breathing deeply of the forest behind your home
And gaze at the winter moon,
Only just past the crest of the darkest days of the year.
You stride out in slippers, shoes, boots or bare feet
Every return having it's own variation,
And in that pale light
Throw handfuls of birdseed
Onto the sometimes frozen, sometimes muddy ground,
Casting your generosity to unknown takers,
Tithing your portion to the congregation of wild things.
I can see you standing there
In the glow of that endlessly clean starlight
Eyes gleaming
Hair the color
of wheat
and seed
silver moon
And milk
For my undomesticated friends — By Carrie Newcomer December 2006