These are the wild days.
In this late June’s late noon haze,
we wander through the wetness left
by June’s heavy rains.
We meander through the puddled woodlands,
troubling the mud and
muddying the waters.
And we wander: mother, son, & daughter.
These are the wild days.
This is our own small wild place.
And this is how we play and these are our faces.
And this is how we keep the small child’s wild ways.
We ramble down between the misty trees
to play. These are the wild days
of mid-summer when faeries play
like children and small humans become fae.
It is here we find our magic place.
It is here we find this great white faerie house
hidden in the weeds. This house is inhabited
by friends.
And these are our friends.
And these are our woods. And these are our bridges.
And this is our river. And these are our bodies.
And these are our ways. And this is our home.
And these are the wild days.
My children are arrows, and magic the bow. And I am the quiver.
These are the wild days.
In this late June’s late noon haze,
we wander through the wetness left
by June’s heavy rains.
We meander through the puddled woodlands,
troubling the mud and
muddying the waters.
And we wander: mother, son, & daughter.
These are the wild days.
This is our own small wild place.
And this is how we play and these are our faces.
And this is how we keep the small child’s wild ways.
We ramble down between the misty trees
to play. These are the wild days
of mid-summer when faeries play
like children and small humans become fae.
It is here we find our magic place.
It is here we find this great white faerie house
hidden in the weeds. This house is inhabited
by friends.
And these are our friends.
And these are our woods. And these are our bridges.
And this is our river. And these are our bodies.
And these are our ways. And this is our home.
And these are the wild days.
My children are arrows, and magic the bow. And I am the quiver.
—Jessica Rose Shanahan
Nov. 14, 2017