For the women who feel somehow winged and boned with smoke, but can still get the kitchen floor scrubbed. Wander-hearted, enchanted, the unkempt women who keep song in the world.
Part of a moon was falling down the west,
Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills.
Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw it
And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand
Among the harp-like morning-glory strings,
Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves,
As if she played unheard some tenderness
That wrought on him beside her in the night.
For the women who never just see the horizon but envision its lucent reveries & promises, and for whom skies become elven kingdoms and breezes are old sacred poems ... The wild and quiet women, strong and gentle women, the dreamers and drifting souls ...
Thank you for being yourselves. We need your luminous, fecund, unravelled, ensorcelling truth.