And I shall ask you, “Do you mean girls or women?”
If you mean women, I will tell you, as a woman.
A woman is a flower.
Her folded skin, petals.
Her vagina, rich layers of silt.
Her womb, a bed of lotus.
Birthplace of Life. New worlds. Awakening.
You have been taught that this is weakness, but you must unlearn and re-see.
There are small red flowers that bloom in winter against a white backdrop of snow.
And those with thorns that cut deep.
Flowers turn toward the sun, especially in the rain.
The lotus root does not break.
It merely shape shifts, and its thin threads weave humanity together in love.
When you give Her flowers, you acknowledge all that She is.
“But the flowers will die,” you say. “This is not practical.”
“We will all die,” I say. “This is life.”
Flowers do not come to this earth to be practical. They come to be.
And in their being, they are beautiful.
And their beauty at full bloom is very practical to the bee that drinks its nectar and is nourished.
In their death, flowers show us our own mortality. They are truth tellers.
Our skin shall one day wilt, our womb unable to birth children, but are we no longer beautiful? Are we no longer practical?
A woman is not here to bring more practicality to the world.
She is here to bring beauty
Birth new worlds,
Cry oceans of tears,
Recycle tears for baptisms,
Mourn the dead
Dance and laugh.
She is here to live,
To die and be reborn.
She has done it for thousands of years.
She has no fear of death.
She is the void, the vast nothing and the all.
She is Creator and Life-Giver
She is also the Black Sovereign Mistress who will usher you to thresholds
And be the container for your becoming.
Cast white lilies down the hole of a grave.
Toss purple irises down the aisle of a wedding.
Scatter Her bed and hair with rose petals.
It’s all the same.
The flowers you give Her shall never really die.
She will have the petal forever between the pages of her book or in the neural network of her memory, electricity forever buzzing between synapses of love and ecstasy and desire