Advent for a Wolf Child

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I am a shepherd

waiting on stars,

brooding for

this age on

the Bright One.

Each generation must resolve you see,

we must, again,

make our way to this Mystery.

The same old greatest story ever told

is swept under the wonder again.

I can see you hiding, lone, beneath

this brilliant nightscape. You claim the

legend for your own though your

substance wanes in custom. If

unknowing is not your thing,

you can, let us say, for a moment, go

savage, through instinct, become a

child raised by wolves.

Come stunned, undone,

feel it all for the

first time without the

words you are inflicted with.

Skawk from the darkness of that

cleft in the rock you call your life.

Shudder ‘neath the

liquid crystalline voices

igniting a million miles of

nerve cells flashing

from your reptilian stem to the

toes of your heedful feet.

Wolf-child! Lift your chin!

Breathe in the funk of

mammalian birth, the

musky blood and tears,

the steaming hide of

oxen, donkey dung and the

dog in sympatico panting.

Come ‘longside mother bathed in

fevered mirth in this

earthen enclave womb of

reconciliation to

the fullness.

Now, wolf-child rejoice

that you did not see God

but his gift of love,

one come native,

the revelation of the

original dream

in him,

through him,

to him,

a sense of what we might become.

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