I am the woman dancing the world

alive:

birds on my wrists

sun-feathers in my hair

I leap through hoops of atoms;

under my steps

plants burst into bloom

birches tremble in their silver.

Can you not see the roundness of me:

curve of the earth

maternal arms of the sea
encircling you wetly as you swim?

I am the birthing woman

kneeling by the river

heaving, pushing forth a sacred body

not mud, not stone: flesh and blood.

Round, round the wind

spinning itself wild

drawing great circles of music

across the sky.

Round the gourd full of seed

round the moon in its ripeness

round the door through which I come

stooping into your house.

I am a God of a thousand names:

why cannot one of them be

Woman Singing?