Sometimes I think women are made
Of blood and flowers.
The little girls named
After innocent blooms
My own daughter
Named for the violets
In the autumn.
I remember
The women of years past
Stringing dried petals together
And singing to the Goddess
With a rosary
Before Mary was formed
In the consciousness
Of her mother
We forget
We spring up from the dirt
And to Her we return.
Not a creation of some
Abstract sky ruler
But conceived in the womb
Of the mother
Our mother.
When we open to full womanhood
We are
The lotus between the thighs
The jewel of creation
The rose of the womb
And like Blodeuwedd
We flower women wander off
In search of that which we desire
Following the call
Of our hearts.
They call that betrayal
In those tales.
So when you name that little girl
Thinking to sweeten her
Never forget
Who she belongs to
Don't be surprised
When she leaves you behind
For her true nature.

- Jenny Wren