Rise up, sister. Rise up.
Because the mountain's jagged starts are the rocky soles of your shoes. Because the pump and pulse of the oil beneath the ground is your dark drum beat. Because your sleep is that of the fog tangled web in deep forests. Your sigh breathes Spring's warmth resuscitating the cold crusted earth. Steam rising. Lazarus the world. Your hands orchestrate the waltz of leaves on the wind and the stars in their falling from the heavens. Because when you rise, you rise the nations! The very depth and breadth of the planet feels your intake of breath, your setting shoulders square, your jaw clench and lift, your eyes flash white lightening electric determination. Your movement. Your forward steps.
So rise up. Move the world with you. Move the people with you. You hear the rush of the waterfall ahead? Row. Row to it. Like your very life depended on it. Be not afraid because you are made of that very wonder! Row to the sound of the roar and roar with it! Rise up and do that which you were made to do.
editor's note - the original public post contained this preface:
"My play on Still I Rise (the gorgeous Maya Angelou poem that I adore) for Rachel Crabtree. Her birthday poem! Because she is going to do big things. I can just feel it."