I linger in the forest, threading pine needles, silently listening to the song of the night lark in the peaking moonlight.
I pass by my sorrows, the deep wells of grief.
Breathing in.
Embracing the biting cold winter air on my bare face and icy fingers.
I have no map,
I have no compass,
but the whispered wisdom of the earth that holds me. I am movement,
life and death, stardust, wind, water, dirt,
I am fire and spirit.
I need not be everything or anything right now.
I linger.
– Aimee Fenech
Jan 14, 2025