In supine repose she reaches out
with verdant arms of brown and yellow-green,
to clasp her bony fingers in sensuous release
with the vertical horizon.
Skies, gray and whole, play ninety degree tug-o’-war
with grass, prickly hay and knobby-need shrubbery –
rough ‘n tumble farm stubble.
Short shacks and weathered barns
pimple her broad back
alive with promise of more.
Suggesting we but see,
she insists upon her miles-wide self.
Sometimes she sleeps and forfeits life,
longing for heaven’s lusty drool.
This long land has much to speak,
her hard, crusted lips pursed
to kiss only those who see her –
and hold their breath.