Baba Yaga The Wise

From my green house above the garden,
where roses climb the railings
and the tomatoes split themselves open
with summer sweetness,
I hear the wild orchestra
of small becoming things.

High bright piercing—
that red-light scream
of little girls discovering
their lungs are doors.

The world spends years
teaching daughters
how to fold themselves smaller.

Inside voices.
Cross your legs.
Raise your hand.
Wait your turn.
Do not interrupt.
Do not howl.
Do not take up too much sky.

But on the playground—
ahhh, little sparrows—
the fence of the mouth breaks open.

And out it comes.

Scream of joy.
Scream of rage.
Scream of look at me.
Scream of don’t touch me.
Scream of I am alive enough
to split the air in two.

Their voices rise sharp as hawks
because nature designed them that way.

A child’s cry must cut through the forest.
Through dishes clattering.
Through sleep.
Through grief.
Through the thousand distractions
of tired adults.

The body hears that sound
and leaps before thought can catch it.

Some ancient grandmother inside us
still rises from her chair
thinking:

Who is hurt?
Who needs me?
Where is the danger?

Even when the scream
is only joy wearing the same red shoes
as panic.

And so I sit on my porch
with my tea cooling beside me,
listening to the shrieking chorus
beyond the fence.

Sometimes my nerves twitch.
Sometimes I almost shut the door.

But then I remember—

there will come a day
when those girls are told
their feelings are inconvenient.

A day when laughter becomes “too loud.”
A day when anger becomes “unladylike.”
A day when the world rewards them
for silence so complete
they disappear inside it.

So let them scream now.

Let them practice thunder.

Let them fling their voices
against the blue bowl of the sky
before someone teaches them
to swallow their storms whole.

I am Baba Yaga of the upstairs porch.
Guardian of tomatoes, music,
children’s chaos, and blooming things.

I do not shush the wildness.

I witness it.

And beneath the screaming,
beneath the playground wars and joy,
I hear something holy:

the sound of souls
still believing
they are allowed
to be heard