Sacred roots

It is not in the sky above

where we find each other.

Not in distant light

not in unreachable heavens.

It is below.

In the deep waters.

In the unseen.

In the place where breath slows

and identity loosens its grip.

There

where the world forgets its edges

and form gives way to origin

our depths recognize one another.

Roots find roots.

Not as separate beings reaching

but as something already intertwined

before memory

before language

before the first story ever tried to name us.

We descend

and in the descent we do not fall

we return.

Into the sacred expanse of abyss and chaos

where creation is not controlled

but conceived.

Where nothing is ordered

yet everything is becoming.

Here

women are not isolated forms

but braided existence.

Roots of matriarchy

woven through sisterhood

through cycles that do not ask permission to turn.

Living calendars upon the earth.

Marked not by numbers

but by blood

by moon

by the quiet knowing of when to open

and when to close.

Poppies bloom here.

Soft

unassuming

yet powerful enough to quiet thunder

to lay lightning down into rest

to remind even the storm

that it too must sleep.

And within this

there is a womb.

Not metaphor alone

but axis.

A sacred containment

where creation is held

protected

gestated

without demand for explanation.

And we begin to understand

we are not here to conquer what holds us

but to protect it.

To honor what has always carried us

long before we learned to stand.

We come closer then

not upward

but inward.

Toward love

that loved us first.

And in that realization

a shift occurs.

A stillness.

An awe.

Before her.

Not as an idea

not as a title

but as presence.

The goddess is not waiting to be seen.

She moves whether she is witnessed or not.

The moon does not ask for permission to reflect her.

It simply follows.

She is the current.

She is the wave.

She is the movement that does not announce itself

yet shapes everything it touches.

And here is where we enter.

Not as rulers

not as owners

but as recognition.

We are the echo

that proves the sound existed.

We are the awe

that reveals the magnitude of what stands before us.

We are the ones who arrive

not empty

but carrying.

An offering.

Not to complete her

for she was never incomplete

but to meet her.

To stand in strength

not above

not below

but beside.

To hold

when she has given beyond measure.

When blood has marked the ground.

When sweat has carved the path.

When tears have baptized what was broken.

When bones have carried more than they were ever meant to bear.

We do not take from her.

We witness.

We support.

We become structure

without becoming cage.

And in this

the masculine is not erased

but refined.

No longer needing to dominate

to define

to prove.

Instead

to see clearly.

To remain steady.

To become a mirror

that does not distort.

Because we have been the broken mirror before.

We have been the lying reflection.

We have mistaken our fear for truth

our insecurity for judgment

our absence for strength.

But here

in the deep

those distortions cannot survive.

Only clarity remains.

And so we become

the recognition.

the mirror.

the witness that does not waver.

And in that unwavering

something completes itself.

Not her.

Not us.

But the space between.

Where ascension is not escape

but embodiment.

Where wide eyed wonder does not disappear

but matures.

Where the girl who once looked outward

now stands within

fully seen

fully known

fully undeniable.

And we remain there

not as saviors

not as spectators

but as those who finally understand

that to behold her

clearly

without distortion

is its own form of becoming.