I want to be what they are —
want to listen with their ears, to sleep
in their dens of superb sensitivity.
I’ve read that wolves can hear a leaf falling
from miles away
and a man once told me they smell the snow
in people’s smiles,
the threat curled in a handshake.
Like us, they’ll fight for territory or a hurt mate.
Like us, they have been known
to surround what the pack needs to survive
and devour it.
Wolves aren’t gods —
they live as we do, die as we do,
but mirrors don’t interest me.
At night I lie awake
and imagine how the land that’s left
welcomes the wild, wide range of their existence.
Their fur ripples as they fan out across golden fields
in search of an ancient, forgotten freedom.
About the Creator
Lori Lamothe
Poet, Writer, Mom. Owner of two rescue huskies. Former baker who writes on books, true crime, culture and fiction.
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Comments (1)
Such a beautiful, impactful poem. This goes beyond simple 'Roses are red, violets are blue' poetry; it expresses a longing that can never be communicated in mere words.