The First Flower, The Vagina

The world has sung of sunrises,
of rivers keeping their promise to the sea,
of roses opening after rain.

But rarely has the world spoken
of the first flower it ever knew,
the blossom that does not grow in gardens,
yet feeds every root of humanity.

It cannot be withered by winter,
cannot be starved by famine,
cannot be broken by storm.
It is the beauty at the center of woman,
the place of birth,
of power,
of beauty,
of poetry.

It is no accident that her body
carries both beauty and beginning.
She is a garden,
her petals folding and unfolding with grace.
No sculptor has carved it,
no hand could fashion it better.
This is the seat of power,
waiting in patience,
waiting in reverence.

Do not call it small.
It is wide as oceans,
deep as memory.
Within its folds
nations are conceived,
histories take breath.
Its lines are strong
as the roots of the baobab,
steady as mountains
that do not move.

Yes, it is a flower,
but not a fragile bloom
that dies in the sun.
It is a rose of fire,
a blossom of strength,
pulsing with flow,
beating with song.
Tender for creation,
not decoration.
Its beauty is not for passing eyes,
but for the truth that life itself
begins here.

When it opens,
It blooms in trust,
in the warmth of love,
in the honest catch
of reverent hands.
Like dawn, it spills light.
Like rivers, it flows free.
And in its unfolding
is both poetry and prophecy.

Many have tried to name it,
to paint it,
to own it.
But it belongs to no brush,
no word,
no claim.
It is the garden every woman carries,
the fire every woman guards,
the throne every woman sits upon,
with dignity,
with laughter,
with strength.

Touch it,
and you touch mystery.
Look upon it with reverence,
and you see the handwriting of God
upon flesh.
Here hunger softens,
longing becomes creation,
desire meets its answer.
It is gift,
not possession.
Blessing,
not burden.

So speak of it with respect.
Speak of it as you would
the sun,
the river,
the ground beneath your feet.
It is flower,
it is fire,
it is freedom.
It is woman.

And in its beauty
lives a truth unshakable:
that life,
in all its splendor and sorrow,
begins here,
and nowhere else.

@doddyokelo