At twenty-two, I let myself be talked into wearing heels at our wedding because
that is what brides do.
Worn once and dirtied from sinking into rain-damp earth,
I tower over my groom in photos and am reminded
of a time I didn't listen to my instincts.
I heed them better at thirty.
Womanhood eludes prescription; their labels run a
size too small to cover any adequately. We are, after all,
created in the image of an infinite, creative God.
Your daughters will prophesy and re-imagine, blaze trails
and remain faithful to the Spirit poured-out still
I quit trying to squeeze my twice-swelled body into juniors' jeans,
embracing the woman I've become over the girl who once was.
shared with five minute friday at the gypsy mama. prompt: the women