Our Woman: Our Women:

Our woman is the question and the answer, the labyrinth and the thread.

She is the light and the darkness that cradles it.

In her wake, the world learns to breathe a little deeper.

She is everything and nothing, the inhale and the exhale.

She craves freedom and roots, solitude and skin.

Our women lights sage and curses in the same breath,

believes in karma and chaos, in gods who wear masks and speak in riddles.

She is both lighthouse and shipwreck,

the one who rescues and the one who drowns,

arms open to the tide, heart heavy with shadows.

Our woman speaks of souls and collects signs in the folds of her dress,

reads psalms and palms with the same devotion.

Her faith is wild and untempered; she prays with her eyes open,

searching skies for answers in circling sparrows,

a river carving new paths through rocks and ruins alike.

Our woman is both ink and paper, story and silence.

She writes to weave memory into meaning, to remember

what time tries to erase.

To stand at the edge of something vast and uncharted,

to brave the depths without map or anchor.

Our women are long walks with no destination,

pausing to admire ivy climbing forgotten walls.

She touches petals with a lover’s care,

whispers to roots as if they might remember her kindness come spring.

Every garden is a cathedral.