Wild

She was not a rabbit that you could snare.

She was not clay you could morph and mould

into its smallest and most insignificant of forms.

She was not a treasure to be locked up in a glass cage

and hidden from the light of day.

You could not capture her

hold her

squash her.

No.

She was the gale wind of the incoming storm,

reckless

ominous.

She was the eye of the hurricane,

the glistening first snow,

the pounding of a rainstorm,

the whisper of a summer breeze.

She was the scent of flowers as spring approached.

the swish of a white-tailed deer racing through the trees,

the delicate song of a bird,

the fierceness of a lioness.

And while you could try to harness her.

You would be a fool to try.

For only a fool would try to capture

that which cannot be

snared.