The soft secret
to a woman’s power
is not in riding the wild stallion.
Mare and mate run like wind,
eat from the belly of the earth,
nuzzle their foals
… but she learns to be ridden,
to have his deep hoofprints etched into her flanks,
to hear his wild screams
and to stand with deep grounding
as the earth breathes strength into her legs,
as she plants herself in love,
repeats the wet invitation,
stands open to the tearing rip of surrender,
finds the quiet power
with which she rises to meet his blows.