I Am The Wild That Does Not Wilt

Don’t speak to me of shame.

I’ve tasted it.

Worn it like a second skin,

hidden in it like smoke behind stone,

until Jehovah peeled it off

like bark from a tree struck by lightning—

scorched, yes,

but still standing.

I came from silence,

mud on my knees,

muck in my mouth,

dragging history through the marrow of my bones.

But I stood—

not clean,

not polished,

but real.

Whole.

Woven from earth,

ignited by fire,

moved by wind,

and backed by waters

that do not whisper.

They roar.

They will cleanse what clings to me.

They will wipe out what was never mine to carry.

I have roots that reach through burial and bloom,

through ancestors who whispered wisdom into the dust

long before anyone tried to name me unworthy.

I am the daughter of soil and spirit,

the ember that won’t die,

the calm before the strike.

I am soft,

but I am not small.

I am quiet,

but I am not weak.

I can love like a meadow

or split sky with a single glance.

Do not corner me—

for I carry claws.

And I will not be caged again

by anyone

who smells of rot and false sweetness.

I am not a secret.

I am not your shame.

I am not your fantasy.

I am His.

Loved by Jehovah,

named before men had tongues to twist it.

So do not look down on me

for crawling from the dirt—

because I am dirt.

And that is holy.

From dust I was formed,

and from dust I will rise

again

and

again.