Donald P. Goodman III
A woman who has borne a child has made a world, produc'd a universe which ne'er has been before, with all the others delicately, closely curl'd, but still all new, and full of strange, myster'ous lore. Each morning rises Brother Sun, to set his eye upon a world still e'er surpris'd to see his face; he gazes on new wonders till he goes to lie; who knows if, when he wakes, again that path he'll trace? And when he sets, arises Sister Moon to shine, with all her sister stars, alight and cool and clear, brand-new; who knows how they might change or recombine the next time night shall come to this unknown frontier?
And every time his Brother Wind shall choose to blow, he blows on things which ne'er have felt his touch before; perhaps he'll next blow warm, or upward; down, or slow; who knows how this strange, mystic thing may choose to soar? His Sister Water, flowing like some magic dance through streams and rivers, cooly falling as the rain; tomorrow she may flow uphill; her rain, perchance, may to the full and storm-gray clouds its way regain. His Brother Fire may dance and frolic as he burns, now hot and bright as flames climb high into the night; next time, will they glow cool, as he the flame discerns? Will they burn dark instead of shining forth their light?
And Sister Mother Earth; who knows what she may do? Today she's strong and steady, firm for standing tall; perhaps, when sun next rises, she will skip and skew, and those who once stood firm will stumble, trip, and fall? A new, myster'ous world! and she has made it real, this woman who has carried such a precious freight! What other creature can such wonders so reveal, can from her flesh and blood a universe create? From her this world recieves what will to it belong, receives its shape and properties, its form and fate! Hail, woman! she whose power is surpassing strong! Hail, woman! source of every poem, every song!