On the softness lining the inside of legs that bend to the height of children during the day and move quick quick slow quick quick slow from one town to the next, one family to the next, finishing the day clipped to pedals climbing imaginary mountains and then curled next to him on the sofa before climbing into bed and stretching through the night.  The softness that stays no matter the discipline, the long hard days, the chasing chasing chasing.

On the sudden awareness of the center and its swinging and signing and swaying back and forth, hot and cold through the month.  This part that marks me woman and that suddenly has my ear whenever it whispers stories and what ifs and taunting haunting delays.  The center storms, has me diligently tempering the creating, stilling the ticks and tocks.

On the pride lurching through body, birthed in a heart that is full of battle and fight and struggle and that sometimes mourns the road of woman, mourns the softness, the ebb and flow come and go fire, and then blooms-- bursts fierce for family and Lord and holds steadfast in ways women have always held for men.

On these and the rest
I am learning