Rise, warrior of the winds.
Your sensitive, subtle strength
makes mountains tremble
in reverent awe
and trees reach
down, down, down
in yearning intimacy
with the holy Mother
that lives in your bones.
Rise, woman of the waters.
There is a swelling tide
within you
made not to sit behind a dam
but to rumble and shape the stones
that sit heavy upon the planet’s
capacity to feel.
Others may try to keep you small,
but only because they fear
your moon-like magnetism.
Rise, goddess, rise.
It is not the time
to write new legends,
but to bring the ancient,
buried worship back.
To move within circles
and remember, fiercely,
that the stars live in your eyes,
and with one blink
you can summon the sun.
Enough of this submissive nonsense.
You were not made
to please
but to dismantle darkness
with your alluring gaze,
to lay siege
upon the fortress
that for too long
has kept the wild, feminine heart
chained and captive.
World in your soft,
weathered palm
rise, goddess, rise.
—deborah quibell
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