Imagine the desert mothers, with hair tangled tighter than their theology and breasts that flowed milk and mystic wisdom. Theyknew how to draw the singingsigils in the sand, how to dig rough and bitten fingers into desiccated dirt for water to wet the lips of their young. Women of hips and heft, who learned how to burn beneath the wild and searing sun, who made loud love against the star-flecked threat of night, who knew that strengths not always a matter of muscle. Imagine your ancestresses, the prophetesses of the arid lands, before these starched traditions and pews too hardtop ray from, who bled true ritual and birthed their own fierce souls at creation's crowning --

Night Cycles: Poetry for a Dark Night of the Soul