There is no levelheadedness to wildness of itself.
Wildness embraces the moment from a deeper palate.
It is most certainly not a compromise
of motor skills made legible.
It is not a complacent procession dignified
as a means to an end.
It’s so busy in its self-fury,
it’s not aware as bystanders would be.
It’s reading from a different set of cues
as its outrageous operative means.
The scope of wildness has no foreground immediacies
as having distance perspective,
and no background as distractively urgent.
Running wild is an observer’s view from afar
yet paradoxically ever so near as endearingly close.
Wildness is precious without glitter, dazzle or luster.
Wildness is viewed from an outside, labeling it,
wondering what the isness is that is expressing,
and where, from within, does it gain
that outright permission to do so.
Wildness is an unheld fire-hose gushing
the pressure release as its evidence.
It’s animation as in the joy
of it’s A-to-B movement, sprung free.
Wildness is not its intended expression
but our observational and summational account,
no matter this be animal, weather, water, or odd human,
seems towards a rational construction in response.
Wildness is non-categorical beauty as in grace into flow.
Baffling but respected,
genuine beyond accepted means,
wildness is spontaneously refreshing,
as in living the death of each sneeze into freshly awaken,
as in being taken up by the free-fall as gravity provides.
Wildness is a needed page-turn
at the risk of a paper cut,
an energetic honesty that sneaks through into display,
and play as a house of mirrors setting you image free.
Wildness is without escort or appropriate venue.
Wildness erupts not as self claimed or contained.
It is a lightning of truth buried in discharge mode.
For some creatures or circumstances,
it is its only way.
In our heart of hearts,
if the truth be told,
there is no value to wildness
but to be . . .