She stands, a towering hymn of marrow and moonlight,
veins of gold pulsing beneath bark-soft skin,
her spine an ancient trunk, rising
from the womb of knowing
Her breath, the whisper of wind through leaves,
lungs unfolding like petals at dawn,
each inhale a prayer, each exhale an offering—
an endless cycle of giving, receiving, becoming
Beneath her ribs, rivers course like the sap of old oaks,
nourishing the chambers of her heart,
where wisdom nests, where love is language,
where silence births the voice of the stars
Her womb, the soil of genesis, dark, infinite, alive,
holding the pulse of futures yet sung,
a cavern of creation, where dreams
stretch their roots into the marrow of the earth
Her bones remember—
the rhythm of tides, the glow of embers,
the chant of ancestors woven into her sinew
She is not merely flesh; she is vessel,
oracle, lighthouse, sky
When she listens—
truly listens—
to the whisper of her own branches,
the hum of her sacred rivers,
the knowing in her belly’s deep well,
she becomes an unbreakable force
Purpose flourishes in her hands,
resourcefulness etched in her palms,
her fingertips dripping with the nectar of intuition
She does not ask the wind where she belongs—
She is the wind
She does not beg the sun for light—
She is the glow
She does not fear the storm—
She is the storm, and the calm that follows
A woman aligned,
rooted in her essence,
branches spread wide to the infinite sky,
feet firm in the language of the earth
She does not merely live—
she thrives
She does not merely dream—
she creates
She is the Tree of Life,
and within her, eternity sings—
Copyright © 2025 Sherley Delia | All rights reserved.
Healing Majestically 