The blue and grey of the lightening sky
Tell me I’ve been walking for far too long.
The birds’ sweet morning lullaby song
Is calling me to sleep. I can’t say why
I feel more at home here, away from my
Holt. I’ve been told this only serves to prolong
This soul-shaped hole in me. Was it so wrong
When it was adventure I was pulled out by?
It is no longer the pull of secrets unlocked
That keeps me out here. I feel no need to roam
To discover a new river or a new dreamberry bush,
Or a need to explore distant forests unwalked.
These things do not pull me away from my home.
It is no pull at all, really—but a (very Bright) push.
The bee-keeper's come, though, and with her
New hope rises like the new moons.
Silver light, silver hope, healing old wounds;
Not only in the sleeping, but in those who were
Waiting. Wrapped in silk or wrapped in fur,
Dreaming silent songs or whistling light tunes,
Alike tire of waiting for both “later”s and “soon”s.
I can't sit still for a tail full of burrs.
Patience is needed, it's what should be mine;
I should go out scouting, territory-covering,
Adventure still calls me, so familiar and hopeful.
But my territory pales, the mountains don't shine
As much as the Holt does, I find myself hovering.
It's not a push I feel now, but a (very Bright) pull.