Beneath the slow opal moon,
a lone wolf stands -
the frost gleaming on his coat
The night hums softly through the trees,
a low hymn of acceptance and belonging.
He remembers the pack -
how they moved as one pulse,
hearts synced even through the snow.
How a glance through the pines
Could subtly speak a lifetime,
How a single howl could call them home
from miles of silence and cold.
For wolves are born
with two hungers -
one for freedom,
and one for the firelight of others.
Even love, like the moon,
must wax and wane.
There are seasons
when the leader
Or lover
walks alone,
crossing borders.
Running the old hunting paths,
Looking for changes
in the storied wind.
He walks not away,
But deeper in -
into the forest of his memory.
Every rustle stirs the ghost of a hunt,
every star a spark of the eyes
And tails that once ran beside him.
He carries their echoes in his ribs
like a drum that will never stop beating.
Solitude is no exile.
It is the breath between howls,
the sacred pause that keeps
the chorus in harmony between lifetimes.
To stand alone is not to be apart,
but to keep the pack alive within.
And when he lifts his eyes to the horizon,
he knows his wild, twinkling ancestors
Will always answer back.
We are not lost in the wilderness.
We are found.
Jan 14
Jan 14, 2026 at 1:52 PM UTC
Beneath the slow opal moon,
a lone wolf stands -
the frost gleaming on his coat
The night hums softly through the trees,
a low hymn of acceptance and belonging.
He remembers the pack -
how they moved as one pulse,
hearts synced even through the snow.
How a glance through the pines
Could subtly speak a lifetime,
How a single howl could call them home
from miles of silence and cold.
For wolves are born
with two hungers -
one for freedom,
and one for the firelight of others.
Even love, like the moon,
must wax and wane.
There are seasons
when the leader
Or lover
walks alone,
crossing borders.
Running the old hunting paths,
Looking for changes
in the storied wind.
He walks not away,
But deeper in -
into the forest of his memory.
Every rustle stirs the ghost of a hunt,
every star a spark of the eyes
And tails that once ran beside him.
He carries their echoes in his ribs
like a drum that will never stop beating.
Solitude is no exile.
It is the breath between howls,
the sacred pause that keeps
the chorus in harmony between lifetimes.
To stand alone is not to be apart,
but to keep the pack alive within.
And when he lifts his eyes to the horizon,
he knows his wild, twinkling ancestors
Will always answer back.
We are not lost in the wilderness.
We are found.
