She is made of river and stone—
soft enough to soothe a wounded bird,
strong enough to carry the mountain’s weight
without ever bending.
Her hands plant seeds
in soil her grandmothers bled into.
Her voice—low, steady—
knows when to sing,
and when silence is the sharpest blade.
She braids her hair
with stories of fire and frost,
each strand a memory,
each feather a promise
never broken.
The world has tried to take her name,
her land,
her children—
but still, she rises,
with moccasins worn thin by prayer
and a spine carved by thunder.
She does not shout.
She does not flee.
She stands—
in ceremony, in storm, in sorrow—
and becomes the wind
that teaches trees to bend
without breaking.
She is not what the world expected.
She is more.
She is river and stone.
And she remembers.
