The Bear

Bear, keeper of the deep earth,

you move with the weight of mountains,

fur thick with the silence of forests,

claws carved from the roots of time.

You are not only brute strength,

but a guardian —

the one who stands watch

when shadows draw near,

the shield between the firelight

and the devouring dark.

Your breath clouds the cold air,

reminding us that endurance and patience

are also a form of power.

In the old villages,

your name was spoken like a prayer,

your image painted on doors

to keep evil at bay.

Children slept in peace,

knowing the bear kept vigil.

Bear, you are not afraid of winter.

You descend into darkness,

trusting the womb of the earth,

and still you emerge,

still you rise.

In your bones,

there is the memory of healing.

In your roar,

there is the promise

that nothing is stronger than survival —

not famine, not frost,

not the long night itself.

And in your watchful silence,

there is a vow unbroken:

that the hearth will not go cold,

that the living will not be left unguarded,

that the wild itself

stands sentinel at our side.