How I see depression.

The Wolf

There is a wolf that does not howl at the moon,
nor chase what flees.
It stands rooted in frost, breath slow and silver,
ears angled toward the smallest tremor
that might dare to disturb the dark.

It learned this posture slowly—
through winters that arrived without warning,
through hunger, through lessons
taught without mercy and never explained.

It does not bare its teeth nor waste its strength.
But one word can shift its spine,
can remind it why it learned to wait.
It will shred your skin to pieces,
yet leave you a sliver of breath—enough to survive—
and watch from a distance
as you paint the frost red,
waiting for you to stand.

I once believed healing meant teaching the wolf to lie down,
to trust the open field, to forget the shape of danger.
So I walk with it—
not as master, nor as captive.
Named, it does not swell or snarl.
Seen, it lowers its head and lets the moment pass.

Healing is not the absence of the wolf.
It is the quiet pact:
its breath warm at my side, its weight pacing my shadow,
it will walk with me and not decide on impulse
when the world deserves its teeth.