It is not the young woman who deftly weaves her way between the tangle of thorns, calling each and every rose bush by name, remembering how many blossoms they have birthed in the years it took for them to climb so high

It is not the wild woman who whispers to the hearts of men, who quells their furious thrashing into a gentle lapping of waves  

It is not the vengeful woman who builds a sanctuary, a place of peace for all who enter, a nurturing nest of healing and rejuvenation

It is not the proud woman whose bloodied hands help birth spring lambs in the mud, wrapping the shivering, wet body in her own clothes

Worship not these false idols. Acknowledge their monuments with grace and understanding. They were built by fools, they are loved by fools. 

Kneel and kiss the mother Earth, giving thanks for her patient serenity. Sing with the swaying of the trees and drink deeply of the water that springs forth from the place where all life begins. Heal with the crone, the gnarled wisdom of ancient hands.