I am longing for the touch of earthen places
coves and hollows, caves and dens
where small creatures round and soften themselves
in the safety of twigs and pine needles, feathers and fur

I would pull a carpet of stone-sprouted moss
up over my head, tasting the air
between my mouth and every other living thing
learning to burrow and weave, gather and give

I would ask something wise-eyed 
vole or crow, possum or fox
what it knows of loneliness,
of snake and hawk and deprivation,
but it would only blink back confused
pitying my nakedness