Initiating My Daughter     
                                                    by Ann Howells
                      Before your childish body 
                        rounds and softens,
                        before some smooth-skinned boy
                        rocks your equanimity,
                        as night’s bright crescent
                        pierces the Eastern sky—
                        we curl in the porch swing,
                        lap robe tucked around our feet.
                      Moonflowers twine the railing,
                        lucent, blue-sheen faces tipped
                        as I explain little winters
                        that come before spring, before rebirth:
                        womb damp, lush with fern—
                        cushioned bower, life cradle
                        where once I cradled you.
                      Before you outgrow fairy-tales
                        still half-believed,
                        before the first blood spills—
                        I whisper mysteries in your ear,
                        your eyes wide with wonder
                        that you, girl-child, are pilgrim
                        in this ancient rite.
                      Before you turn in seasons,
                        before you pull and press the tides,
                        know you hold life
                        behind your flat belly,
                        clasp miracles in your hand—
                        Snow White and Rose Red,
                        virgin and goddess, woman.