Thrust into the vastness of her sacred space.
She accepts me into her.
Her gift of life fills my lungs with my first gasp.
She breathes, into me.
The touch of her energy source laid upon my skin.
She infuses the essence of me with nourishment.
Sounds of the inhabitants she holds within.
She speaks to my spirit, “you belong’ and comforts me.
Her dwelling provides all my needs, as my growth takes pace.
She gives space, unleashes, the animal that is me.
Amazed and fulfilled with wonder, in pursuit of liberation, only wishes to discover.
Her abundance, never ending, overflowing & wild.
She moves and dances with me.
I love her and depend on her, for I am her child.
As she intended. She is the energy of life, flowing through every living thing.
Mother, Earth.
Photo credit: Isabella Mariana via Pexels
About the Creator
Miya Banks
I'm here to use my words to light a path of wonder, insightful, imaginative, heart-skipping and thought-provoking figurative plots that sweep, drive and plunge you into our alternate worlds. Please enjoy, it's my pleasure.
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Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley6 days ago in Fiction
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