Roots silently sprawling, the earth is
alive. Cradling silent the ruble of dead
leaves and stone; the dirt holds
trees who are waiting for earth to swell and cramp,
pushing her eggs up through tubes of grass.
Rocks emerge from her underbelly, blowing prayers in whispering wind
and pine smoke over the hills. Clouds of rain wash her hair dripping
down limbs into soil filled with tears of the weary. Bent upward towards the raving sky,
reaching for paradise, heaven’s delirium of a ravished earth,
sprout the blooms of woman, pained in her birth and rushes of blood. Outlined
with stars and a half moon cupping her breasts, the night drapes her in loneliness,
cloaked in secrets and miracles of a woman. Holy is this place.