Dear Black Woman,
Soften.
Come visit me in the garden for a while as we gaze upon ripe crops,
Appreciating everything that's here from the soil to the bugs to the finished product.
May we sip slow as we laugh and talk,
Spilling the tea on each other's dreams,
Holding our visions collectively and generating this limitless energy.
May we reach up high toward the sun,
Stretching our bodies into the sky,
Mimicking the stance of the apple trees with our arms reaching out oh so wide like branches,
Awakening all of the places that were stiff,
Snap,
Crackle,
Pop.
Oh,
Chah,
I needed this.
May we savor the breeze as we close our eyes and breathe,
Sending cool fresh air down,
Down,
Down into our bellies.
May we sit in the comfort of pleasure and ease,
Gently exhaling as we sink deeper into our seats,
Placing our hands on our chest and feeling the rhythm of our heartbeat.
This is what it feels like to be free.
May we relax our shoulders and rest our minds,
Enjoying the greenery and passing the time.
May we know that everything else outside of this space,
Outside of each other's company,
Outside of this grace,
Can wait.
That time will come,
But for now we can't be busy being there.
We're too infatuated with being here in the garden.
Softening,
Listening,
Resting,
Dreaming,
Conjuring,
Cackling,
Drinking,
Laughing,
Singing,
Winding,
Calming,
Reclaiming,
Finding.
Reuniting with our center,
With ourselves,
With our peace.
May your black woman soften.