In my dreams, the women are drumming,
their waters are rising, silver and wild.
Making prayers of their bodies,
they dance as if swimming
under the Moon Mother spell.
© Angela Bigler 2016
Her songs are earth deep mantras calling names of constellations into being.
Her light soaked in, released the magic pine and herbs.
All those folded flowers lifted up their sacred prayers – water, light, dirt, love.
Her gifts – who could forget them?
Did you see her gentle curves?
The way her spine supports her children?
It’s impossible to live without her heaven/earth transcendence.
Aren’t we all turning, turning with the planet that she raised?
To be woman
Is the flowing strength
This caring for others
Breaks my heart
But lifts me
And my curves
What is different
Is my voice
More like a song
Than a masculine gruff
Not that I can’t growl
And bare my teeth
But my soft folds
And my million thoughts
A certain way that contrasts
Yin from yang
To be woman
Is the pulse
No matter if her
That she tends
© Angela Bigler 2013
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