She will take whatever you give her, without question, without reservation. For this reason you need to be careful, because, having given it, you may see her change, and you may not be able to take back what you have given. She is sometimes called the Water of Water. Give her your dreams and she will hold them with incredible tenderness. Give her your anger and bitterness, and she will take it into herself and become a lesson for you in restraint. She is the Unmanifest, waiting for your command. Or she is a woman, one with few emotional barriers, whose only salvation is her loving heart. You know her. She is moody as the ocean, silver-blue radiant in a June breeze, black and deadly in a November gale. You know her and you know you could drown in her love, and so you fear her. If she had a patron deity it would be Poseidon, Lord of the Ocean, of the Earthquake, of the Horse. Like the ocean, it is hard for her to know herself, because, like the ocean, she can’t really be contained in any form or definition.
I know such a woman, and if she is reading this she will recognize it. For me our connection inhabits an uneasy triangulation of little sister, aunt, and friend. She is a Viking, a Norn, a female Centaur.
“The wind howls like a hammer,
The night blows rainy.
My love is like some raven,
At my window with a broken wing.”