By Callum 
She is robed in green threads and leaf-stitch gold, a garment spun from soil, rain, root, and bloom. The costume is not clothing so much as ceremony—every fold a prayer, every surface an offering.
A crown of blossoms, vines, feathers; arms outstretched, grounding on earth, reaching toward sky. The face half hidden beneath petals, half glowing with dawn’s first light. The body is both stage and canvas; patterns of bark, flower, water run across skin as if painted by wind.
This costume holds the paradox: beauty tangled with burden. The costume embodies generosity—the seed, the harvest—but also weight: of climate, of loss, of responsibility. Its every seam calls us to remember: earth gives, earth shields, earth mourns.
To wear this costume is to become Mother, to walk between soil and sky, to carry everything alive on your shoulders, and to feel every dying leaf, every rising tide, every wind-borne seed.