The River She Became

The Orishas carved mountains,

struck oceans,

shaped the earth with force.

And still, nothing grew.

They had left her out.

Oshun, golden, laughing,

hips like rivers,

whose charm binds what power alone cannot.

They thought sweetness small.

They thought warmth trivial.

They did not see that life bends to tenderness.

She came with her calabash pressed to her chest:

water fresh and alive,

honey,

fertility,

warmth,

the knowledge that binds.

She poured it over stone, over soil, over air.

Rivers rose.

Plants unfurled.

Animals stirred.

The world remembered itself.

Even sweetness can be withheld.

She stepped back.

Rivers slowed.

Soil split.

The air sharpened.

The Orishas ached for her presence.

She poured again,

not in anger,

but in choice.

Life returned because she allowed it.

Shango refused to bend.

She brought honey to lips,

warmth to hands,

patience to eyes.

Fire softened.

Even thunder learned tenderness.

Ogun hid in shadow.

She walked the forest alone,

hips swaying,

calabash glowing.

Honey tasted.

Anger cracked.

Rage softened.

Spirit returned.

She does not defeat; she awakens.

She weeps, too.

Her tears become streams,

her sorrow a river,

golden and alive,

impossible to hold.

The world drinks.

She is hers alone.

She carries mirrors polished to sunlit fire.

Not for vanity.

To reflect pride, longing, impatience, wounds.

Beauty becomes clarity.

Reflection becomes power.

Self-knowledge becomes strength.

Oshun walks among us, human and divine.

Sweetness and strength bound in a single body,

giving and withholding,

teaching and holding.

The river, the honey, the calabash, the mirror

she reminds us:

life is tender.

Power is soft.

Boundaries are sacred.

To recognize her is to see her fully:

golden, radiant, warm, dangerous, irresistible.

Without her, the world would forget how to breathe.