Moonlit Journey: A Wolf's Confession

In the hush of an ancient grove-
gnarled oak limbs clasped in lichen,
silver birches leaning like watchful ghosts-
I thread the fern-bedecked floor,
each blade dripping cold dew,
the air rich with pine resin and damp loam.

My pelt is charcoal flecked with moonlight,
muscles coiling beneath coarse fur-
I slip between brambles,
bone-white shards of old skulls
glinting beneath moss.

She sings a lullaby-a fragment of song;
"Hush now, little heart, let wild winds hold your sorrow..."
Her melody winds through spruce boughs,
and in its folds I taste longing sharper
than any hunt.

Nostrils flare:
the crisp tang of her breath,
the honeyed drift of blackberries crushed underfoot,
and dread that tastes of iron-
a primal ache, jaws slackening with want.

Within my ribs, a broken art pulses-
a half-heard ballad on fractured strings,
scarred by old grief and begging for a chorus.

She carries a woven basket-
inside, a warm loaf scored with runes of care,
a jar of honeysuckle honey glinting gold,
a spool of scarlet thread wound tight around promise,
and a single daisy, petals wilted but steadfast-
tokens of hope balanced against the taste of tears.

Her footsteps are muted prayers on the mossy path,
and at a clearing rimmed by shadow and moonbeam-
a crossroads of instinct and mercy-
our eyes collide: amber fire to gentle green.

She falters in mid-verse, voice quivering-
an unspoken plea hovering between us.
The moon's pale eye drifts overhead,
but here, in that trembling hush,
I lower my head, warm breath brushing her fingers,
and learn that even beasts can cradle kindness.

This confession ends not in crimson,
but in compassion born anew
beneath these sentinel pines.