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Poem
Most women have grown tired of just being women,
Weary of always being the flowers of unending seasons, awaiting to be plucked
And placed in vases for gazes that never feel their roots;
They, the ladies of time, the queens of tales, are tired of being confined to frames, ships without oarsmen on seas with hearts of glass.
The hourglass has been shattered in which they are mere timekeepers of beauty,
To be the wind beneath wings in flights that are not their own,
To be the patient blank canvas others paint with their dreams, not understanding that they
Are moving works of art, ever-changing, not just tones in a static tableau.
They’ve grown weary of being seen as mothers, saints, sinners or muses,
To be little fish in aquariums, where others swim with curious eyes, but never dive in to feel
The temperature of the water, to be the first letter of an alphabet rustling under the wind, always read but seldom truly written;
They, these women, whose souls have set so many tables, that now the cosmic table seems all too small.
The sacred feminine is tired of being the unrecognized temple, always the bread and the wine offered,
But never the fabric, not the blood flowing through life’s veins nor the sustenance transformed into thought,
To be the estuary where others' longings pour, but which leads nowhere,
Women wish to be the ocean, and not just its beautiful shore.
To be the entire poem, not just its final stanza,
To be the authors, not just the handwritten letters,
To be the mind that overturns kingdoms, not just a chess game set up for execution,
Taming their profound soul is a defiance, and they no longer want to be cast into the void of habit, the common pit of forgetting.
They want to be understood in soul and in profound thoughts, not just in bed or cooking,
In free flight, not just in a small room on the second floor,
They are the wandering stars through the cosmos, not just the candlestick on the table,
Holding light for others and slowly burning out in a solitude that lets time's droplets fall.
So they break the chain of the conventional, shaking their hair full of falling stars,
Telling the world that not just the moons define their cycles, but also the great revolutions burning within,
Painting their portraits in the sky, they cover themselves with galaxies, not with veils,
And thus, the woman, tired of just being a woman, becomes the entire universe, a mastery dancing between the sublime and the infinite.
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