The Circle Calls for You
by Crystal Craig

Sister, rise.
The stars tilt and whisper.
Roots shiver beneath the soil.
The ancient drums of the earth
beat a pulse only we can hear.

The veil between what was
and what will be
thins.
The circle is forming.

Come.

Here, we scream into the wind—
names, titles, masks—
all torn loose,
swallowed by the dark sky.

We are nothing they named us.
We are everything they feared.

We howl to the swollen moon,
our voices stitching the night
into a cloak of meteors—
wild, radiant, untamed.

Here, we press our fears into mud,
wash our faces in rivers of becoming,
ignite the sacred fire—
not with flint or stone,
but with the essence of our words,
spilled unguarded,
offered as breath to the blaze.

Here, the world falls away—
its clamor, its hunger,
its endless asking.
The earth takes it,
holds it,
while we remember
what it is to simply be.

Beneath the trees,
to the throb of drums,
we dance.
Bare feet sinking,
hips and spines undulating,
our bodies moving as they remember—
raw, unchained,
older than language itself.

Every beat a spell:
We are alive.
We are whole.
We are infinite.

Feminine force surges—
not polished, not polite—
but sacred and wild,
mud-streaked and luminous,
a tempest no hand can tame.

We paint the void
not with brushes,
but with flesh and breath:
hair tracing arcs of starlight,
nails carving runes of truth,
curves and sinew pressing prayer
deep into the waiting canvas.

Every mark a spell.
Every motion, an invocation.

This is the circle
of Maiden,
Mother,
Crone.
For she who laughs like storms,
she who mourns in shadow,
she who has been unseen
too long.

For the wild,
the tender,
the unapologetic.
For every woman whose bones ache
to expand,
to trust,
to burn bright
in her own unbridled light.

We gather
in drumbeat and firelight,
in mud and moon-glow.
Here, no mouth silences us.
No gaze shames us.
No chain remains.

The fire is fed.
The wild stirs.
The circle waits.

Are you coming, Sister?