in her words
I am paradox embodied,
formed out of the most beautiful nothing.
My body is made of sap and songs, red earth, musk, and morning light.
My mind is a flaming windflower. My soul: the sky.
I have seen clouds in the sea.
Tossed on the potter’s wheel, I am supple and shriveled, resistant, surrendered,
forever destroyed and re-made.
I know blossoms born of burning, and I also know rain.
I am the dawn, dreaming and determined,
a young girl and quiet crone.
I am melting snow—ruby-eyed and terrified—awed by my own mystery,
I am the story of a slow burning star.
My yearning is rebellion, my pleasure unmoored.
I am the wound and the medicine, protestor and protested—bound and ever-free.
Beneath the painted masks of personality, I am consort of eternity.
Loved and rejected, respected, subjected, praised, and put down—
when all of this fades, I am what remains.
Who writes these words?
Who thinks these thoughts?
Woman of tides and bones, her full potential still unknown.
Ripening, I am.