a woman

a man

and, when it comes to the tired madness

of hierarchy,

none of the above.

a river’s daughter,

a warrior’s son

and a grandmother

turned iron on a hill

overlooking peace

where lighting always falls

hard striking.

she broke into song,

broke open the song in us,

was broken by the wizened power,

old as voices,

that never has comprehended singing.

yet being forever broken

into and open

her song will not silenced be;

just as waters never cease

to bead

on the cheeks of leaves

nor to seek

their way downhill

pooling together

in depth and strength.