She is wily, easing me to sleep on her puffs of quiet night, then startling me awake with the wail of a coyote just after its kill.
She is funny. Waxy wet grass blades lie down like a slick haircut, and my feet slip from under to over in a flash. As I lie on her, feeling the ache from the places that struck her, I notice she holds me.
She is glorious and tempestuous. We lay bouquets at the altar of her fecundity while damning her for the way she washes herself clean. She bothers us and makes us cry.
Such a beauty, she is, draping herself in fabrics of corn flower and stock, her skin in places red like the harlot’s. Her eyes one moment clearest honest blue, the next, stone hail gray. But still, so lovely I can only stare.
New born skin glows under deep pools that pour, then splash down craggy, ancient escarpment. The babe and the crone, full face squinting into the sun, knowing and not that just beyond is the scythe.