The Untamed Mend - After Wakeup. Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

The iron grip begins to rust,
As towers turn to ancient dust.
The hands that used to clench so tight,
Now open to the morning light.

We step aside from paved-over ways,
To find the rhythm of the days.
No longer masters of the hill,
We learn the art of standing still.

The thread we broke with selfish pride,
Is mending on the rising tide.
Not joined by glue or human art,
But woven back through quiet heart.

The river speaks, we finally hear,
A language washed of greed and fear.
We do not guide the water's flow,
We simply go where it must go.

To heal is not to build or bind,
But leave the heavy 'will' behind.
No longer lost, no longer cold,
Inside a story, green and old.

We find our place, not at the head,
But walking where the wild things tread.