Who Are You?

She waits alone on the bluffs, facing the winds that would fight her stand.  Strands of hair whipping across cheeks lashed by the cold bluster of sea kissed air in haphazard frenzies and flurries dance chaotically around her still body.  She looks defiant and bold but courage has left her.  She trembles within where the ebb and flow of love and worry have battered her. The sun slowly warms her skin in spite of the constantly barraging wind.  The attack becomes a caress and the air breathes a whisper, "who are you?" She breathes deeply, knowing she's been given the breath of life. As she exhales, her faith is the renewed purpose begging to answer, "what's my contribution?"

She thought of her favorite literature and the accident of its survival. Through the burning of heritage by conquerors and the libraries that lost battles with floods and fire, its survival has been a lucky mistake of history.  There's no reason to its survival from oral tradition to written prose.  She is the guardian of her favorite tome, memorizing stanzas and caressing phrases on gentle lips that try to hold the beauty of each image with gentle breath in honor of the miracle of its persistence. Its survival is an accident and she will honor each word.

She feels the strain of the day as a pulse that throbs at her temple.  She feels the pressure rise a beat under her skin.  Humming and throbbing a frenetic rhythm of life.  She knows who she is.  She carries the blood of lifetimes before her.  Kings and slaves of distant lands and time came before her.  Women that carried babies and lead their households give her generational strength.  The back breaking labor of men in fields and railroads, through racism and scarcity support her and she feels her spine straightening. Her existence was no accident. Her life on this earth is woven with purpose. It runs through her veins. 

With a deep inhalation, she swelled with the fire bestowed by the breath of life and exhaled a fortified surge of power, knowing she was ready to offer the world her contribution.  She was ready to walk in love.  She was ready to be brave in spite of fear.  She was ready to be courageous, no matter how much the pain of her loss manifested as an empty ache in her belly. She would continue to lead with her heart, offering love because she knew it would only fester into pain if she held it quietly within. She was ready to lead.  She was ready to show others the power of their identity.



In the blowing winds You'd be my anchor

Together we are the storm

The pressure drops

A hostage to your gaze

The calm you hold

Keeps me grounded

While I hold you high

Fallen leaves circle our feet

Crisp air metering breath

I hiccough in cold

Paroxysms of pain

vying with relief

Found in your arms I brace for it

Clouds shift slowly

burdened by crystalline weight

The pressure falls and I'm lifted

and beaten

collective drops sting

cold and constant

Your touch a searing moment

of indelible memories

Steam rising from heated flesh

met with the pain of the storm


I step back and am removed

I don't live in the raging storm

you need to be rescued of

I don't dance in the laser flash of lightning

Because I was made for the sun