Every Woman is an Island

No woman is an island? I think that's wrong. Every woman is an island. There are things that rise above the waterline—there are boats that journey to and fro on lapping waves—and all these things are good. But your island, the Isle of You, is a place where others are not meant to dwell: if they come, it is as visitors. They have islands of their own to return to. And what do they know of your secret soil deep beneath the rocks, of the volcanic stirrings that pulled you from the sea? You cannot explain these things because there are not words to explain them; or there are words but which would take a life's whole span to speak. The language between islands is like the language between stars, high flooded promontories gazing out across an emptiness, who cherish others, loving what they see. They love your trees, they love your orbit and your tide. But at your white-hot core of spinning fire, at your roots beneath the stone and storied sea, at your heart-springs, they can only guess.