Before we are anything else
we are daughters.
We claim the mantle of our first shaping
from the breast of nurture and dreams.
Mothers that tend households
and feed multitudes;
women that leave their own young
to tie our shoes and set a plate before us;
books that invite us to tumble into the expansive universe
of what was, what is, what could be.
Teachers open worlds of information;
coaches stretch the muscles of our possibility;
and bit by bit we flex the tenderness of our becoming.
And we have wounds.
Hurts inflicted that sear our souls,
trusts betrayed and violated,
scars that heal and pain that lingers.
We are shaped by the worlds that lap across
the toes of our awakening
and crash with force against
our ever-strengenthening core.
Born of divine light and grace,
our souls drink deeply from the font
that blesses and challenges,
sustains and sharpens,
comforts and bids.
We are daughters of the universe,
sisters of the sacred,
called to holy being by the holiest of beings.
We are. We. Are.