The Perfect Storm

clould_storm

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Her certainties are vague and always fleeting, dissembled by a will that’s not her own, her thoughts, though rogue, are always so compliant, this the woman cast in role, she must atone, for something that she’s unaware of doing, for being just a woman here on earth, no ladette this, no bloke, no guy, no rugged master, simply born as female, lost, alone.

Watch her work it out that she’s done nothing, nothing more than black or white or gay, observe her as she claims her own potential, watch and wait, she’ll realise and have her say.

Biblically, she’ll clamour for the wild side, back to nature, earth and Gaia birthed, stand at ready, watch the elemental, working in the flesh and soil, rebirth.

See her rooted back to where she came from, note the stature, see the tree within, growing new limbs, sending where they’re willing, this is she, this is not a he or him.

Woman, by her very nature, growth and nourishment she will provide, intrinsic to her sex, and damn proud of it, watch and see her claim her wilder side.

Time was had and time was spent in waiting for hunter to provide the unit’s needs, they left, they fought, became distracted, forgot the reason why, the mouths to feed.

Woman waited, woman worried, wondered, what the fuck and why the hunter late, discovery of distraction, from the purpose, declared the hunter useless as a mate.

Hear the lioness, the mighty mother, hear the elephant, the whale, the mom, want to see a world in all its glory, give woman time, await the perfect storm.

 

Sweeping

Late she came. No badge to mark significance. Just another mother, lover, woman. An anyone. And anyone could be her name. Late she came and stayed when all around had disappeared beneath the semblance of a snowfall, an ashen depth of winter dealt untimely. Surreal. And nothing ever quite the same again. It was summer when the dust began and hurried, desperate in its efforts to find base. Surfaces all around, all those in favour, resigned themselves to its reception, gallons of a powder white but tainted, knell of death to those who breathed its subtle lace. Intricate it was, in how it hurried, in a slow descent of wishing where to rest, it flurried and it roasted where it met life, resurrecting even while it met its death. Late she came and swept and swept as always, swept for all the reasons people sweep. And, afterwards, when so much dust still rested, she swept again. And swept. No time to weep.