HER WAYS

The Sacred Feminine

She is the giver of breath, yet asks for no name.

The world is her body, yet she claims no part.

She is the canvas on which all sight is painted,

And the painter who stays always outside the frame.

Hiding not in shadow, but in the very light

That makes the morning green.

She is complexity woven into a single thread,

A symphony heard in the space between notes.

She speaks in the language of roots seeking water,

And is silent in the marketplace of words.

Her justice is the mountain, unyielding and clear.

Her mercy is the valley, cradling all that falls.

She loves as the sky loves the earth—

Without touch, without taking, without end.

She is water: humble, transparent, life-giving.

She is ocean: fathomless, turning, whole.

Her way is not a path to follow,

But the ground on which all paths are laid.

Her secrets are not written in stars,

But in the quiet of stones,

In the patience of soil,

In the surrender of leaves returning to earth.

Oh,

If these eyes could learn to see

Not as hunters, but as guests…

Then, perhaps,

I might glimpse the edge of her garment,

The trailing light of her grace.

I speak of the source, the essence that has no form,

The silence that sings the world into sound,

The presence that dwells at the heart of appearance,

The love that asks nothing, and so holds everything.

So are her ways—

Not a riddle to be solved,

But a mystery to be lived.