My goddess is not round and voluptuous but rather long and sinuous, gentle and veiny in her hands, like my mother's. She is a horse, a cat, with reserved resolve while walking in grace. She is the ocean under the moon, forest streams trickling through the roots n' stones down into fish-bourne pools. She is not a rose but an iris, the lily of the valleys, maybe a few white daffodils with the slender leaves included.
My goddess feels with her loins, walks long distances and does not worry about soft flowered beds of sumptuousness. Mine is the tall trees leaning long curves in the wind. She is the willow tree by the brook, the keeper of the scrying pool under the caves.
She knows herself foremost before she comes to nurture. She is herself, her own private world of poetry and secret places and quiet humming. She is capable, astute behind her gentle touch. She soothes and holds the most fragile of moments or beings, yet her healing comes from her immense strength, striking vision, long roads passed beneath her feet.
She is cool (not hot with passion) yet warm in the crevices. She knows when to open and when it is best to store her energy. She is resourceful and brilliant and laughs with the men. She comes when she wants to and dissolves into the crest of the wave at sea.
She is a unicorn, not a faerie. She holds the power of the Moon. She is humbled in adoration before that silver glow in dark night bloom.
That is my goddess.
