Words tumble down to her feet

The waters gather 

Fluid reflections of untitled biographies float down stream

She is writing the days

Events come to pass

Foretold by the bruha 

Cards of fortune 

Offer painted illustrations of her womb

She is the birthing 

Awakened by a single cry of her organic wisdom

She travels exhausted by the in and out 

Carrying cauldrons of her tell tales signs

She stirs the brew

Bubbling surfaces show her magic

She learns the dances

Footwork of fancy

She dreams of freedom

Closing the door 

Behind her

Red boudoir glass icicles dangle from her eyelids

Opening her mind to kaleidoscopes

Of sensory vision

She unfurls her hair 

Sweeping through the changes

She is tall

The crone calls beaconing 

Walking stick speaks 

Flower petals shattered

Dried bouquets Fragrant 

Wisps of gray 

Matter of facts 

Falter under the weight of her knowing 

Forming tiny fragments of her soul scape

A map of the road to flames of effigies burning in the night 

her former self

Left on yesterday’s doorstep

Fleeing the welcome of goodbyes

She is alive

You and I

She becomes 

Every changing in her majesty

Queen of all movement

Shaping her shift

To an endless becoming