Made All of Flowers She Was

for Chele

Not Brigit, nor Boadicca.
No Beatrice, but being all yourself.

And yet, some goddess guides you,
As you dance and sprite the day before you.

Perhaps in deed or mayhap
ÔTis Bloeduewedd who tells your tale most truly.

A Brythonic web of Wales.
Herstory mine and yours. Made all of flowers she was

Bred for a god and hero.
Not for herself alone. She chose a man to live a life her own.

Magicians mad pursued her.
Through hill and dale, she fled. She rose.

Fore'er now the cunning owl,
Queen of the night, wings alight, wisdom's delight.

You wax and wane, disappear,
Returning with knowledge of other worlds

Reminding us the sun shines through the moon
In you the dark and light make fire bright

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