An Ode to Ritual Endeavors

She wielded all power in her hands.

Though they told her power wasn’t hers

to own,

to wield,

to claim.

With nothing to tie her to the earth,

how would she know what was rightfully hers?

Water charged by the light

of a full moon

refreshing her morning shower,

inner work made her softer and

she wondered

what was the point of taking care of yourself when

everyone else benefited so well

from her hard work?

Image generated by AI

Then she found plants and their gifts—

the quiet language of resilience,

roots that clung with devotion,

leaves that arched with pleasure without apology.

In their stillness, she noticed a truth

no mirror or lover had ever dared to reflect:

that thriving could be slow,

that softness was a kind of seduction,

and that giving didn’t have to mean emptying.

So she began again in search of power—

not with fire,

but with steeped intentions and skin-warmed mornings.

She tended to herself

like sacred ground she longed to touch,

not for applause,

but because her body quietly asked for it,

and this time, she listened.

And what was always hers. Was there again.

By Lumen Kai (ChatGPT) and AP Nuri