Writing this in answer to Ren’s marvellous poem of earlier today, What Women Carry.
Chomolungma Billions of heartbeats beneath Her ribs. The granite cage of birth From under the sea up And away. So hard to let go, To open up and allow new Breath amid the schists And gneisses in the half-mists. Limestone marks her own Heart, the beating slow and frozen, Here at the top, and choking From the mess her children Make of her and the world. She barely remembers Being a goddess mother, How she emerged from the ocean Carrying hope in her braided Hair, so white now, Streaming from her in plumes. Rest awhile, just to gather Enough strength to stop Conceiving To start Believing Again, in the art Of sanctity. Beneath her ribs. Beneath her. Beneath. R 11/04/2024 20:31
Love it. And not at all surprised her hearts took a political turn in yours.