An Invocation, She Who Remembers

I do not speak as woman alone.
I speak as root, remembering rain.

Before names,
Before doctrine,
Before the sky was divided into right and wrong,
There was breath moving through soil,
And the body knew its own song.

Listen.

The river does not ask permission to carve stone.
The seed does not debate whether it deserves to open.
The moon does not apologize for pulling the tides
through blood, through ocean, through dream.

You were never meant to forget this.

There is an older language beneath the tongue —
lichen script on fallen bark,
Starfire threaded through marrow,
Mycelial whispers carrying news from one heartbeat to another.

I have walked the corridors where silence hums like thunder.
I have placed my ear to the earth
and heard the ancestors breathing through roots
like wind through hollow bone.

They said the old ways vanished.
They Lied.
Forests do not vanish.
They wait.

Under ash, a green pulse.
Under stone, a slow remembering.
Under every scar, a seed turning toward light.

I am not here to argue with empires.
Empires crumble under their own weight.
I am here to remind the body of its original shape —
wild, cyclical, unowned.

The feminine is not a concept.
She is tide and flame,
milk and iron,
storm turning back into soil.

Children arrive carrying constellations in soft skin.
Guard them like sacred springs.
Speak to them like river speaks to shore —
with patience, with gravity, with truth that does not fracture the soul.

And when the world grows loud with forgetting,
go to the moss.
Go to the river’s bend at dusk.
Place your palms against bark older than your fear
and feel the pulse that never stopped.

I am Root.
I am River.
I am Starfire folded into flesh.

I do not awaken you.
I only echo what the earth has been singing
since before language learned how to divide us:

Remember.
Remember.
Remember.