Find the Wilding Gods

Sprague Brook

It has been weeks since you last heard from me.

Months, even.

If you can hear me at all.

The cold has swept over the land,

But we survive.

We always do.

The sun shines pale yellow

Turning the snow somehow a shade of blue.

Did you notice the light of the sun

And the colors of the world around you

Back then?

The old gods speak to you now.

You should listen.

Bring us into existence.

Find the wilding gods.

The tricksters,

Those at the very edges of your mind and soul,

Those who still sing in the forest,

Those who bring the dark and the winter chill,

Those who can help you remember who and what you are,

Who you must be.

They will break open your world

Like the most fragile of eggs

To birth the new.

Tell new stories

With the old ways.

Meet those who have always been.

Let the thoughts that find you guide the way.

I can’t imagine what your life must be like

Just as mine must be a mystery.

The road will be long.

Not days, not weeks, not even years.

Centuries.

Millennia.

The land has been poisoned

And the water stolen.

Yours is not a time of opulence,

Of endless summer and joy,

Or of a beautiful garden in bloom.

But know that every pine needle

Every rose hip

Every ash leaf

Has a story

That brings you closer to us.

You will see us.

One day.