the earth mother.

The Earth Mother wears glasses,
wrinkles, tired expressions,
with a heavy, soft belly,
from which beautiful man was born.
Her pendulum breasts,
milky, ageless, as planets.
She is not trim, chiseled.
She is older than conformity.
She knows no magazine, no media.
Her silhouette is the night blanket,
by which we soundly sleep;
her thick flanks,
from which warmth began.
Goddess is she.
Goddess is art.
Goddess is love.
Goddess is we.
As we weary ourselves as equals,
as no one pads frame drums,
to the beat of our sway, our every day.
As no one lays fruit by our trodden feet.
As we fill roles, schedules, high-chairs,
lunch pails, paintbrushes,
but not ourselves.
The Earth Mother calls to us-
from inside us,
to hear her, to wear her,
to feel her, to live her,
to live free.
Goddess is we, she pulses,
Goddess is we.

Who Does She Think She Is?

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