Tony DeLorger © 2016
She stands alone, bent of limb,
the vast cracked land forever flat,
finds horizon with a floury of jagged spires;
and grey skies mirror her solitude,
a body so beauteous in blend with dried wooden growth,
stuck in waterless subterfuge,
roots thirsting and flesh in plea,
of change, to set her free.
Her hair of green, of forest scent,
her arms of dried and lifeless spokes,
uphold a nest, a hope of reprieve,
a life in waiting to soothe her seed;
and mother’s plump and succulent breasts,
ripe and poised to feed,
the earth that seems so bereft of hope,
for rain to revive and exceed her scope.
And so she waits,
her form a beauty in contrast,
her nature so eloquent to evoke,
the knowing that she will ensue, for all she is,
that life will continue in fall and growth,
and beauty leads her forms and whims,
in cycles just and never sin.