- SHE IS A METAPHOR
maybe she and the land are really one and the same
- though it's true, all of them are, but -
maybe she is one living breathing metahpor.
her arms are streams, feet, curved mountain roads
her skin is the lustrous sheen of daybreak
( or the held-breath moments just before )
the curve of her stomach, when curled up to sleep,
is a poisoned bay
though in her gentle perfection, you wouldn't know it
she could be a wide-hipped,
rapids-fed, petal-dotted river
a slow carver of plains, whittler away
of stubborn old rock and dirt -
a thick forest of huggable trees,
open for the taking but secrets laying forever
she could be a hotspring too,
a shaky-footed, steam-rising
pool of clear inviting water
( almost virginal but completely knowing,
heat hidden in the depths, beauty waiting )
if she, though, is a metaphor for her land
- they all are, but even still -
then maybe she is a low wide field
once pristine and mysterious
but a place who likes it better
under the sun and hands
of the farmboy who loves it best.
