Standard Format

A poem about a spirituality that is feminine.
Set rituals are powerful, and so is the ineffable.

A standard format.
The male in them requires a standard format.
The male in men and women.

Put it into boxes,
Label it and set aside.

Now we’ve got it: “Gotcha”
Something concrete.
Standard format.

Those men who saw and felt it at the start
must have worn these jackets-strait of mind-state.
He showed how all is possible,
All is always there.
But was it lack of trust in such a gossamer illusion,
or merely buried femaleness in men?
Along the way, it came to what is now -
A standard format.
As if the very repetition is enough for something true to get inside me.

My female never needed this.
I went along for your sake, then I stopped.
“This is not me.”
I stay at home and glory in the music,
In roses that need trimming,
Watered precious plants
And smells of fresh baking for my family.

There is no box or label for this shining,
Not a catching or a storing or a keeping.
I fly.

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