Poem:
All women must find their voice—
the timbre and the tone,
the declaration and the decree.
Not the one handed to them,
but the one birthed from within.
A voice rooted in womb wisdom,
the pure octave of resonance and essence.
Uncloaked from the bindings of expectation,
unthreaded from overlays stitched
by lineage, culture, lovers, and loss.
She speaks through soma—
through blood memory,
through the barefoot whisper
of skin pressed to ancient earth.
She is not afraid of her longings.
She explores her yearnings,
her pleasure, her fire, her desire—
unabashed, alive.
Again and again, she births herself—
child to maiden,
maiden to mother,
mother to crone.
From carefree wonder and laughter,
to cloud pictures in the sky—
she remembers the child within.
The one who knew magic,
who danced before knowing rhythm,
who trusted without needing proof.
And still—
she carries her forward,
woven into the woman—
the mother, the becoming.
She chooses to be a safe portal
for a few souls to enter,
and a fierce keeper of her own evolution.
She watches as laugh lines deepen,
as her skin loosens like parchment kissed by wind—
and still, her joy overflows,
her consciousness rises like incense,
tending to wounds
echoed through time.
She patiently cares for the bruises left
by those who could not see her,
the invisible scars just beneath the surface—
unseen by the naked eye
or shallow hearts.
She welcomes her wise ways,
the passing of time
marinated into the rich maturity of a fine vintage.
She walks with the muse
who travelled beside her—
as companion, as guardian,
as sacred witness to her winding path.
Arriving in her Crone years—
stately, sovereign,
deepened by the Great Mother underfoot.
Expanded in all ways.
She ripens into truth,
and her presence becomes
a beacon.
She weaves, she spins, she dances.
From ether and earth,
from blood, bone, and breath.
She touches creation with reverence,
whirling ecstatically—
and becomes it.
~ Lulu Trevena
Image credit: " Mystic Woman Goddess " by Elena Ray
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