A memory stirs me of a lean gray wolf,
Solitary amid Northern snows.
It seemed cruel at the time that
She should be alone
Set off from the pack.

Years later that changed,
And her stride matched that of her fellows.
But how odd now, to be dreaming again
Of the nights of old…

One doesn't see the Northern Lights,
Hanging around with this crowd.
Soft footsteps crunching on snow are unheard.
The sharp eyes, ears, senses have faltered
From depending on the skills of the pack.
One almost yearns now for the beauty of that harshness.

I thought the problem was that I was crazy,
But then that changed.
I thought the problem was having no friends,
But then that changed.
I thought the problem was having no lover,
But then that changed.

I had lingering nights,
Filled with soft words and hands –
As much as one had the right to have,
But it isn't enough, as I don't have me…