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Danny Wolf Jul 1
She is serene.
Samsara has no grip on her soul.
She lived a life of transcendence.
The hand of Cycles unclenched itself in the presence of her holiness.
Bowed at her altar,
Made prayers to her name.
She laid a hand upon the youthfulness of my cheek,
Wiped the tears from my eyes,
Illuminated the swallowing darkness
And took with her my grief.
“Let your heart swell in joy,
My little one,
Pray to me with wholeness in your heart,
for I have never known breath so deep,
or peace so unwavering.”
The waves no longer swell and break and crash.
The waters she lays upon are like glass.
Vritti cita niroda (the cessation of waves in the mind space).
I am still here,
And her love coats me as warm as a summer breeze.
I am safe here,
Where I can look into her emerald eyes once more
And just be.
Danny Wolf Jul 1
When I think I haven’t worked hard enough,
I look at the soil that has pressed itself deep into the cracks of my skin,
and at the purple stain of wild blackberries that has seeped in.
Hands washed, body showered & bathed,
And its memory of hours of work put in holds tight to my fingers.
The soil & stain know they are safe here.
Welcomed, treasured, revered.
They have become part of my fingerprints,
The way I recognize myself,
Know it’s my own hands I look at that bring tears to my eyes.
Dirt is etched into my fathers ring that I wear,
Amplifying the holiness of the cross it bears.
I am sun stained and
So. So. Tired.
The essence of farming lives in the soreness of my cells.
Picking beans already feels like a thousand years ago,
And tomorrow will come too soon-
Before I am rested.
And I will great the morning sun rising over the mountains will a deep breathe.
I will pull my boots on and my body will ache for the days work-
Begging to feel and overcome the discomfort of hundreds of feet bent over pulling weeds,
unsatisfied until my muscles want to give from exhaustion,
not done until my shirt is soaked with sweat,
and still from depths something asks for more.
More work, more ache, more hours.  
Slowly, please…
Through each painstaking and life giving moment here
So I can absorb the density of every single second I’ve spent with my knees pressed into this altar.
Slowly, please…
Because I know I am safe here.
Danny Wolf Mar 11
Skywoman fell from her world above with seed in her hand. The muskrat, dead of life, clenched mud in its paw, its final offering so Earth could become. It all begins with soil and seed. Soil, a micro universe of life sustaining life. Seed, the tiny carriers of stories and sustenance. Two rich and sacred beings I will learn well in my life. My fingers have placed many seeds into cells packed with fertilized soil, placed many seeds straight into the Earth. I have watered them, transplanted their strong roots and promising sprouts, tended to them, harvested their food body and been nourished by their flesh. Soil and seed are the foundation of all plant life, and thus, the foundation of us. Their cells become our cells. Their fiber scrubs our bodies clean of waste and sin. They are the Earth's lungs that breathe life into our lungs. Skywoman fell with seed in her hand. Seed from another world, her offering to a place not originally her home. Turtle Island is not the home of my ancestors. I feel discomfort in the thought of tending to land that was brutally stolen. I find solace in the story of Skywoman. Through her steadfast dedication and reciprocity with the land, Turtle Island welcomed Skywoman in, let itself become her home by its own choice. Her offering of seed a promise to be its tender, its stewardess. Although this Land of Turtle Island is not the roots and soil of my Ancestors, we are all inhabitants of a greater Earth. Through the waters and the mycelial network buried under the old growth forest, I can reach to where my great, great, great, great grandparents stewarded land and tended to beast alike. Their stories are not lost to me, and although I may not know them in the form of words, they are, like the plants, the cells, blood and bone of my being. They comprise the very physical structure and spiritual essence of who I am. And so although this Land of Turtle Island will never be my ancestral home, I can only pray to become its native in time, by its choice, by its welcome. My ancestral home is Earth, as it is for all human life. All of the two legged beings that came before me have foot-printed her soft soil, swam in her rivers, and returned their naked bodies deep in the ground to be food for worms and microbes that digested both their skin and stories. These pieces of human life nourish the soils where wild ramps and fiddleheads grow, where wine berries burst in color, and where carrot seed roots itself sweet and deep. What are we but food for the impeccable microbial universe present in each and every handful of soil? If I work in this life to make my body, my flesh, my muscle, my blood, the most nutritious food for the micro beings to consume and put to new use when I am placed naked and free back into the ground, then I will have done part of my duty. May I one day be potent medicine for them. My duty, next to nourishing the microbes when my heart no longer beats, is to tend to this land as home, healer and relative. One day there will be land that I need, and it will find me, and I will work each day to know and tend and feel and understand that land like my own very body. Until that day, and still after, I will build upon my own heart and mind a beautiful layer of compost and woodchips to breakdown and become rich, soft soil. Soil that retains and builds nutrients and water, is beautifully aerated and loamy. I will build that world within myself so I can extend it outward to every seed I touch, every wild and cultivated food I harvest. And, when that land comes to allow me to tend to it, my offerings will be of humble, hard work. Of service. My work will be to become its native. May the birds know the beat of my footsteps like they know the beat of their own hearts. May the coyotes and the rabbits and the groundhogs and squirrels know my scent the way they know the scent of the wildflowers that have bloomed alongside them year after year, decade after decade. May the soil know the salt of my sweat that has dripped into its universe every day from April to October under the heat of the Sun. May my salts and electrolytes mix with their world, day in and day out, until they need me, too, to survive. May I be as integral to the system as every bee that pollinates the flowers, every frog that eats the bugs, and every fungus that consumes the dead leaf particles and turns them into fertile forest floor for the ferns and other fauna to emerge in ecstasy and vigor. The flavor of this place will be as diverse as the many worlds that collide and coalesce to create it. And I yearn for the day to know the shade of golden yellow of the butter that comes from the cream that separated from the milk that comes from the cow that’s been nourished by the land we have inhabited and fell in love with together. One day I will know just by the subtle change of the smell of the breeze that the magnolias and daffodils are about to blossom. I will know the sweetness of my carrots and green beans, the lingering smell of garlic scapes on my hands after plucking them in May. But first I must make a home of myself. First, my own body, mind, spirit, must be tended to with such adoration and respect and beauty and brilliance. So I will start there…becoming native to my own body. Becoming home to my own self.
Danny Wolf Jan 17
I will miss the wood burning stove in my parents house-
My favorite corner-
Where house becomes home.
And I will miss
the sounds of fire and flame-
And the smell weaving its way throughout the house on a cold January morning-
And the warmth of being in the presence of things ancient & forever-
And chopping, stacking, & carrying wood with my dad-
And just sitting here,
sipping dark roast
& raw milk,
can’t take my eyes off the dance of flames - so **** beautiful.  
I will miss thinking nothing here,
letting it be-
Danny Wolf Nov 2021
You make me want to lay here forever
ignoring the sun
and all of the pieces of myself scattered across my room
tangled in clothes I wore to the bar
that still hold a hint of your smell
from when you hugged me
laid your hand across my cheek
told me you loved me
and I think of her.
I think of how she would feel.
So I try to feed the good wolf
and bite my tongue when you tell me I look beautiful
that you miss me.
I take it all in
blame it on myself
for showing up to where I know you’ll be
and I think of her
in the dark.
Am I no better?
I don’t know if I am.
Danny Wolf Sep 2021
I want to send you an album.
But I can't.
I can't ignore the fact the we kissed
and let more go unspoken.
I hate that if I never said anything,
neither would you.
I have a paralyzing fear of your silence.
I think of that day that I watched your back as you walked down the E hallway
and we didn't speak for months.
I'm still sorry for that.
She sings of the telepathic desert
and I feel that.
My mouth is dry from the silence.
Ten years of words unspoken
(and feelings felt).
I can always feel you,
but will you hear me through the desert?
Part of me wants to be screaming,
feels like I need to.
When I listen to you sing a love song,
I try to decode if it's about me
because I just wanna know how you really feel.
None of them have been about me,
so I have to ask,
how do you really feel?
It's so hard for me to speak
because I'm afraid of you taking it the wrong way.
Have you kept the walls up because you think I'm waiting?
Because you think I'm seeking more?
Sometimes I think I'm crazy for even believing there is one there.
Is there a wall up?
Please, tell me I'm not crazy...
Everywhere else I feel so **** grounded,
but somehow you still shake the Earth inside of me.
Maybe there is a way to understand this cosmically,
the way your stars intertwine with mine.
What time did you take your first breath?
And did I feel it inside of me?
Sometimes I think of how sad I'd be if I ever lost you.
(Sad is a sick understatement).
Sometimes I think of how sad I'd be if I never got to put it all out there.
I don't want to grieve something I never said,
but I've been grieving these words unspoken to you for years.
I always want you to know how much I love you,
and that you are a special to me I can not explain.
I remember the first time I felt you,
sitting in history class sophomore year,
you said something so simple.
It was the first time you shook the Earth inside of me.
I found my sister in the hallway later that day and told her I found my soul mate.
I have learned a new definition of that over the years as I have picked up pieces of myself in the souls of many.
Something of our souls is made of the same dust.
We are like the fireflies,
ruled by super natural forces,
in perpetual cosmic sync.
Our lights will always understand how to shine together,
how to find each other in the dark.
You and I predate this lifetime,
and I guess some stories never finish getting written.
But I long to know your side of it,
the pages you've burned
and the one's you've tucked me away in.
I long to know in hopes that we can find ourselves on the same page.
Danny Wolf Feb 2021
You made a comment,
You let your drunken tongue slip,
And out came words
like a drunken man’s fist.
To my gut they went first,
To the place in my body
That holds all the pain.
To a place I conditioned
my “mindless”, “privileged” mind
to hate.
I digest them easily,
Familiar still the taste
of words about excess,
the body and the mind
do not forget.
I’m used to too much.
These words are internalized,
they become a part of my system-
I feel the universe shifting within.
These words are a black hole,
an off switch,
a portal to my darkness-
a place from which I am afraid
to speak,
a place where
my mind is not crystalline,
but jagged and shattered.
I speak with intentions
to cut you open,
forgetting the words
will rip my throat on the way up.
And I can feel tears
down the back of my throat,
Salting the wounds
we’ve just invoked.
I don’t want to taste this,
I promised to myself
Too many times
I wouldn’t swallow anything
that wasn’t intended to help me heal.

written sometime around 11/18/2016
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