“First Woman”: A Solstice Dream

 

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Photo Credit: Pixabay

First Woman

You may call her Eve

but I knew her as Melissa

The first woman born of her clay

write her story, they whispered

and so I do, following the trace

of her line. The curve of the body

born supine to face the sun

my eyes, watching the slow unwrap

of the goddess. A womb like a hive

my mind, pulled toward the drones

anxious in the hurry to follow a crowd

to nowhere. I turn back

relearning the slow unfolding

of woman. The mother skin lifting

its mold. I watch her smooth the lines

so slowly I am pained by the thought

that we will be left behind. But she

cares not of the train rushing

to the forgetting land. Her fingers

the mystery I need to remember

how carefully she births self

without division and smooths the folds

until lines become curves

until there is no beginning

and no ending

she just is.

#Threshold #WritePhoto #SueVincent #Poetry

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Photo Credit: Sue Vincent

You stand upon the threshold of self

when the eyes outside look inward

past the outer and all its beauty and decay

Light plays tricks with shadows until

they are explored through the pathways

of your own labyrinth, discovering you

are not a cave of darkness, hiding

You are light itself. One golden strand

without an end or a beginning weaves you whole

You

may begin outside, but you will always come back

to the center, pulsing the light that is you

through the body that would hold

Close your eyes and forget this shell

See the labyrinth of light inside

breathing into open space

forming tensile strands weaving

expansion into boundless essence

until there is no you held inside darkness

only joy, threading its golden breath

through all life

 

Written for Sue Vincent’s #writephoto challenge, “Threshold.” 

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