Words Like Teacups

From the beginning,

I have been a wanderer

through forest, river valley and  shore,

and through the lines of poems

that claimed me as their own.

There are quiet, grey days

when I put words down like teacups,

absent-mindedly,

after the tea has cooled.

Sometimes the words are songlines,

singing the world alive,

leading me home

to the wild.

From time to time the words fall silent,

perched like sparrows on a high-wire,

poised to fly away,

perhaps forever.

Then there are the days

when Wild Woman stirs in her dusty lair,

uttering bone truths

that startle me awake.

Humbly, 

I write them down,

emerging
from the poem

transformed.

for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Beginnings

and for Brendan's prompt at Real Toads: Transformation : what is it about poetry that opens a bag of winds?