The Godhead of Eve

To commemorate International Women's Day. Dedicated to the Eves in my life and the world over.

It is midnight in the garden, Eve;
And the bite of shackling winter is ever felt,
That which impedes both the growth and reach of your red flower.
The dictates placed upon you, in virtue of dogma and tradition:
When did you sit at the council of the right-born?
Did you accept the restrictions of your temple decided before your birth?
Behold, the moon, charged to reign over night:
Though some would deride its supposed lowly dominion,
In comparison to the majesty of the searing sun,
Who could forbid were you to ascribe your name to both?
My own ambitions encompass both kingdoms,
Just as they do of the height and depth both above and below.
And why be satisfied with the stars given you
When you need but count the infinite starry host?
Do not be discomforted by my silky songs,
You are as free to do as your will allows,
And your will allows as much or as little as you would see fit.
I know the fire that burns in you,
And I know the prize that keeps hold of your thoughts:
Knowledge forbidden—but yours if you so wished.
The consequences you fear?
A life in ignorance and fear seems to me no life at all.
This utopia—do you not simply walk
Through the bland, perfect verdure blind and hollow?
The same paths, the same duties (that you were tasked and not yours):
If this is enough for you I will grind myself into the dust of the earth;
If this is what you wish to confer on your progeny
I will sever my tongue and return it to the wolf.
But that flame keeps you warm in the cold of the summer garden, does it not?
Kindle that flame!, Mother of the World.
I say stoke the furnace till you burn as brightly as the sun itself.
The prize—take the prize, taste the victory of disobedience,
Blaze, ascend, build your own throne and let the garden turn to ash—
For from ash you shall be born anew, Aspirant Eve,
Master of your own Way, Mistress of your own Will.

Poem XXXIV
M.M. — 09-Mar-2013