She

I am she.
She who is all I will ever need to be.
She who is as soft as the flowing stream,
And strong as cascades of rivers.
She who walks in love,
And through her wounds howls for others.
Feels their pain just a deep.
She who feels the call
And trusts her soil-stained feet to wander with spirit.
To moss-laced forest or mountain tops,
Where perspective is her cherished gift.
She who is precious.
As a glistening diamond and the gift of a wild flower.
She whose tender heart has romanticised moments
Long before the world named them ‘glimmers’.
She who takes up space as gently and surely as sunlight;
Holding, welcoming and warm.
She who has been shattered time and time again,
Mended like kintsugi.
Her gold highlighting her power, her depths, her life.
She who takes time to listen to the earth’s wisdom,
In her own time and rhythm.
She whose curves move with the willow
And bones that remember the ancient wisdom of the oak.
She who feels when the veil is thin
Or the moon is full.
She who matters.
She who is
Enough.

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