They were not months: they were hierophanies,
incarnations of the primal pulse,
three powers of ancient shadows
bound to the rhythm of the sincere orb.
March descends —sensual and perennial—,
with skin of frost and an ignited breath;
in its gaze, volcanic, solemn,
burns an abyss of conceived love.
Eternal lover of an invisible breath,
it girds winter with gentle violence;
it kisses in coldness the inaccessible
and founds in ice an eternal longing.
Its walk summons soft lightning,
its voice is mist of convinced ardor;
it loves in spirals —like stars or birds—,
an intimate tornado, sweet and wounded.
Then April, of fragrant lineage,
erupts in lucid blossoming;
it brings in its hands the vibrant sprout
and in every gesture the sweet imminence.
It is the sweetness of sap that rises,
the clear laughter of early rain;
everything in its breath germinates and ignites,
everything in its name becomes tomorrow.
And May at last —numen of sowing—,
pregnant queen of fertile ardor,
opens the earth, nourishes it, names it,
and raises in its womb the form of the sun.
Deep mother of spike and heartbeat,
ark of time that is born again;
all that is living rests in its nest,
all in its pulse learns to grow.
And in them vibrates, total and unspeakable,
the arcane cipher of the feminine:
strength and tenderness, the faithful and the terrible,
root, fire and sacred destiny.
To be woman —chant, flame, origin—
is not imposition nor given form:
it is to be the verb the cosmos chooses,
it is to be the womb of life.
Because I feel unique being a woman,
I believe this is how all women should love to feel.
#randomhouse
#osirisvaldéslópez
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