a woman
a man
and, when it comes to the tired madness
of hierarchy,
none of the above.
a river’s daughter,
a warrior’s son
and a grandmother
turned iron on a hill
overlooking peace
where lighting always falls
hard striking.
she broke into song,
broke open the song in us,
was broken by the wizened power,
old as voices,
that never has comprehended singing.
yet being forever broken
into and open
her song will not silenced be;
just as waters never cease
to bead
on the cheeks of leaves
nor to seek
their way downhill
pooling together
in depth and strength.
This poem is reproduced with permission; it first appeared in the igNation blog on 12 September 2017.