This morning I blew the roof off of my life.
It had been too long since I’d seen the sky.
Hungry for blue, for breath, I huffed, and I puffed, and I
blew the house up.
This wolf didn’t want to be let in.
I’d been tucked in for a thousand full moons too long – stewing, brewing, suffocating – and I needed freedom.
Sometimes it is that simple, you know –
to meet a need, to blow the roof off of your life,
to seek wider, more forgiving shelter,
to lumber out of your cave and blink into spring, starving and surrounded by new, wide-eyed life, life that looks like you but also looks like itself.
All of you hungry for blue and breath and
something to sink your wet teeth into.
Stale underground will no longer do when your milk is dried up and your thirst asks not for slow echoey drip-drops,
but for oceans.
After all, lupine or ursine or human, you must nurse what you’ve created if it is to survive.
Look. I know it. That cavern kept you safe and cozy. Mine did too.
It served a purpose, gave you a landing pad, but now, lover, the roof sags. You can see the cracks, the exact places it will split and fall and crush you if you stay a moment longer.
If you can see the pattern of your own destruction zigzagging above you,
if you hear the upstairs giants stomping, see
bits of plaster float down like false leaves in the wake of thunderous footsteps not your own, may I suggest something?
Get out, get out, get out!
And join me in the wild wonderlands,
where blue and breath
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