Saint of The Wild

She, the saint of wild things.
The one that we monthly bury.

She, the kin of den dreams.
She, the one who kens me.

She, the blood of the well, the faint metallic smell, the heave of the still horned heifer, the grief of the still born’s mother.

She the saint of dying on the earth, in the sea, the scent descending from the blood and marrow memory.

She, the sprite of Spring bitters, the stolen egg, the first mewls and twitters.
The twig of the nest, the babe at the breast, the solar stretch to the west.

She, the outcast, teetless runt in a litter.

She, the uncanonized, for she the one cannibalized by soil and mycellium scavenged by bacterium, bleached by the fiery skies kiln.
She is sainted by the sanctuary of perpetuity denied.

She, the potency of the liminal, the badger culled as criminal, the placenta ate for minerals, the hedgerows boundary medicines perused by browsing animals.

She, the coughs and tickles, the spring time fevers we have to deny.

She, the ineffable chaos of inconvenience and dying in order to give life.

She the boundary keeper between what it is to live and what it is to survive.

All reverence to you,
She, Saint of the Wild.