08/15/2025
Rooted in the Wild
She was not made
to be soft wind
nor silent river.
She is thunder wrapped in skin,
stone carved by the hands of time.
They called her wild—
but wild is not weakness.
Wild is root.
Wild is bone that remembers
where it comes from.
She walks with the earth’s memory
under her feet,
each step a prayer,
each breath a legacy.
In her blood
are the songs of grandmothers
who burned cedar and sang to the moon,
whose hands birthed nations
from nothing but hunger and hope.
She wears the sky like a cloak,
the stars whisper in her sleep.
When she raises her voice,
mountains bow.
She is the firekeeper,
the water walker,
the silence-breaker,
the protector of names
no one dared to speak.
And still—
they tried to erase her.
But how do you silence the wind?
How do you bury the roots
of the very land beneath your feet?
She is not gone.
She is not quiet.
She is rising—
with every drumbeat,
with every crow’s cry,
with every woman
who dares
to remember.
