She mined her own jewels from glacial ravines and caves deep in the mountains.
She panned for gold in her bloodstream, then burned her fingers smelting.
She wore her hair like vestments.
She made her own fucking crown.
She tilled her kingdom of fields.
She grew strange and delicious crops.
She restored magical beasts to the forests, to resume their living and dying.
She banished false politic.
Witch doctors came to consult her.
She led the minstrels in song.
There is an army protecting this sacred country that's not an army. There's a wall that's not a wall.
Around her grows a hedge of valiant hearts---wild roses, and slightly crazed forsythia---beating out her message in colored pulse:
She is precedent and direction. She is the push of movement and the grace of shelter both.
She holds a spark of the master flame, the mother fire. She says:
Come and light your candle, that we may find each other in the dark.
Light your candle, to learn about shadow.
Light your candle to lift the colors of the world.
I would be a happy serf here. But instead she leads me to be Queen Myself.