I never thought myself a wolf. Silverish,
Lone, remembering: these things, yes.
At times, lupine; at times, somehow humane.
But never such a creature of the moon.
I had never felt the pull of the roguish pack;
Nor the wandering menace of the derelict:
Though I had the hungering gait, right to the bone,
And I’d often been seen to flash a sideways grin.
But recent moons have, as me, waned and waxed.
A family has found me at my rest.
I heard their call. Its howl has called me back
To some more loving wildness, maverick.
At lonesome last the route, my roaming home
Has found me, in the wolf-embrace of him.