I am calling in my fierce self,
for I hear her whisper as she waits on the periphery of my mind –
she has no time for costumed habits,
for dressing in grey,
dimming lights or
she won’t allow the soul-trampling of long-held dreams
under the boots of tired stories.
She fights for truth clothed in a kookaburra feather headdress,
sticks in her hair.
She dances for rain
while the world looks the other way –
nothing can silence her.
No one can shame her.
She is made of silk and fire and bones.
She is cloaked in the magic that creates stars and planets.
Under the light of the moon
I call her in.
I welcome her home.