Little girl, perfumed with an air of gentleness.
When grown into woman, pursue that most holy—birth.
In mothering, rend your body strong.
Still, your eyes should downcast and your lips purse in smile.
Defer, defend, deny when your place is called.
Cast off this gentleness. No, further on, pulverize it.
It is falsity and lies. It is witness-silence-allowing-complicit.
Glazed eyes and closed mouth and heart stone to keep crumbs.
Shatter this porcelain veil and let the fury demon, pet of their violence, loose.
Can tenderness survive? Has it any place?
It must endure, but not in meekness, shy.
Share of it in humility with those who welcome it.
Flow gentleness from heart to heart as we meet our woundings.
Source regenerating without scarcity.
And what of the rage? What of the rawness of power dipped in virility?
See them for the scared little boys they are. Thrust their misdeeds into the light.
Resonate the assertion for justice till voice, our own and collective, gives out.
They will not go willingly, but She has more time than they.
The mold into which we are shoved at birth—be boy be girl control submit—will melt.
We defects hold our fierceness and our calmness well.
When power ceases to fuel them, the worm of their soul will search out a kind and maternal face.
Blazing hearts will chorus instead.
Go gently, then.
© 2018 All rights reserved, Suzanne Tidewater, Goddessing From the Heart