Northern Women, Trued

Northern Women, Trued



Moments come,

some brittle-bent and swift, like this one.

Swooping in, a wind chill pull

takes your breath and runs with it.



Wake up.


Others shed their light

in mystery, close.

Comfort cats, kneading sadness

with purrs and paws,

into the chest of your

fetaled curves.




I have rubbed my fervent thoughts

against each other, for you. Scrubbed,

by moonlight, every crevice in

this, my Western Wall,

without a spark of life.

Fire has its needs. Space.[1]

Deep is entering deep.

I contemplate,

hold open, hospitable, in wait,

between unwieldy elements,

A door.


Heads up.



Your life is a teaching guru.

Mine, too. The pages turn

like when you were 6 months old

on your elbows,

floored, and fascinated

with books, “reading”,

the sensation, bodily, at least.




This chapter is a tome.

You are floored. Your finger follows

story lines. Mine follows, too,

heart-tracing you, me, us.

We read the seasons, womanly.

History teaches, points

her finger back. Before our time,

generations of supply lines,

sapped and lowly loved,

pulling something from you,

From them,

to her,




Bend your ear.


Do you hear the quiet now?

Something has stopped.

Fingers draw lines, too.

Enough. Enough.

Go daughter-deep with this.

Don’t skim.




On better days, remember how

we sat in the lap of that south-facing hill

exploring Northern lore?

Skin, deep and down, womanly,

steeped with notes of juniper gin.

Our skin, fingers ripe with picking.

We two ripe with knowing our own

Place. We two true-d,

in this wide room. A view.




From the bench on the hill

the city-creep of lights

press societal myths.

False light, transgressions, roles.

Idol-ed enablings to transcend.

We walked away,

into our own light, lightly.

Over the mistakes of farmers,

old blow-outs in the fields,

land wounds, healing.

We have named some things,

Some false, some true.




Who am I, Merton asks? Who are we, each?

Ultimate and absolute, who?

We women grieve our losses.

Emptied, even of the letting go.

Oh, we know about receiving

these deaths, with our

postured advantage.

I crave no thing now,

claim no thing, reject no thing.

In this I simply am, we are, each,

our own small glory, like “the moon

or a single blade of grass

wet with dew”[2].

We are our gifts,





For, we are rosy too,

and hipped.

Curved and crafted women.


And while the moon is waxing full,

is not her tidal strength a radiance?

Unapologetic, soft.

nothing and everything to see.

Wild distillations of a grace.

Essence, toning mist.

We are in the air we breathe.




We do, with what we know,

Change, are changed, become.

(No Promethean majick though),

For transformation, too, is gift.

From Love, by Love, to Love, we

carry, just as we are carried.

We, heartbeat of the woods,

are women, trued to place,

to Maker.


[1] Brown, Judy. Art and Spirit of Leadership. Trafford Publishing (Jan. 4 2012), 2012.,

[2] James Finley. Merton’s Palace of Nowhere. Ave Maria Press; Anniversary edition (1009), n.d.



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