A cycle of birth and death plagues the mortal species.
Lamenting, man attempts to change destiny’s theses.
Some can’t seem to halt their lust for dominance and greed,
they reject the warnings Earth is sending, pay no heed.
They clamor for a way of life that will never mean a thing,
as if amassing fortune, will to them eternity bring.
Dissatisfied with the space, left to them in the kern,
their howling calls the silent wolves—the old ways still burn.
Humility is woven in the forest canopy and the ever-changing dunes.
Songs of life await our notice, from dark whispering wings to bright feathery tunes.
Through storm or fire the forest trees hold their heads up high,
carry on a dignity that fate will not deny.
They breathe in what we cannot, suffer our foolish way,
and for this gracious gift, our sharpened axe does repay.
Bearing our mistakes, nature mounts its fight to return.
It’s time to call the quiet wolves—the old ways still burn.
Can we learn to grow, as trees, in quiet meditation?
Accept our fall, live among the roots with exultation?
When the sun arrives each day, we may turn our hand,
to create something true rather than something grand.
Navigate a better future, leading from the heart,
to become one with nature would be our strongest start.
We will find a path through history’s next turn.
Calling the quiet wolves. The old ways still burn.
Olivia Hillaire, writer 
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