She speaks to me in seafoam. 

Born beautiful, she kissed my eyelids and gave me her love of everything. 

Her fingertips are callused from centuries of knotting heartstrings. 

I see her in clear skies and perfect cups of tea and the eyes of those I love. 

 

Her sister taught me to be tactful. 

She whispers not to fool myself into believing that my gentleness is weakness. 

She knows there is strength in kindness. 

Choose only battles you know you can win. 

Your energy is better spent elsewhere. 

 

The girl with the pomegranate-stained lips knows of wreckless love. 

Her kind, dainty hands have held those of Death

And seen value through his sallow cheeks and sunken eyes.

She knows better than anyone that a big freeze is just a prelude to new growth.

 

Her mother has cradled me since birth. 

She watched the sun rise on Eve and will see it set on her last son. 

Icarus rests within her ribs. 

She is too great and vast for Thoreau to claim her as his muse, try as he might. 

 

The goddesses held my hands. 

They sang power into my lungs. 

Every kiss upon my forehead was a gift of love, of passion, of self assuredness.

The goddesses taught me the boundless potential of a women without fear.