Fragments of Her
by Crystal Craig

We are shards
of something ancient.

Bone of the earth.
Breath of the stars.
Memory wrapped in skin.

Shattered pieces
of the Goddess Divine,
scattered across time—
disguised as humans
in a world that has forgotten
how to sing its own name.

Our lives
are migrations
of dust and flame—
each molecule aching
for reunion.

We seek it in touch,
in story,
in firelight.

And sometimes,
we glimpse it—
that holy recognition—
before it slips away,
crumbling the moment it is named.

Still,
we hunger.

Not for comfort.
Not for distraction.
But for return.

I feel Her
in the salt-heavy wind
that kisses the skin
just before the storm.

In the crackle of flame
as it remembers the sun.

In the deep thrum of drumbeat
that speaks in the tongue of marrow.

And I long—
not for heaven,
but for the womb
that made us kin.

Where belonging
was not earned
but known.

Until we find our way home,
I offer myself
to the circle that remains:

To the one with the sparkling eyes
and triangle lines,
etched like runes from another life.

To the sister
who howls with wild laughter
while her hands birth thunder
from stretched skin and wood.

To the brother
who lays down his armor
and bleeds his stories raw
into the sacred soil.

To the mother
whose body became altar—
feeding life from her own bones.

To the father
who forged blade from burden,
and still stood watch
when the night was long.

I remember you.
I belong to you.
I am you.

And in this remembering—
we survive ourselves.

Not through conquest.
Not through isolation.

But through the deep roots
of a culture reborn,
from the compost of our forgetting.

The time of loneliness
is over.

Come to the fire.
Bring your brokenness.
Bring your songs.
Bring your silence.

We are weaving again.
And the Goddess—
still scattered,
still sacred—
is coming back together
through us.