Soft in the breathing, you lie knees loose,
breasts slide each down a rib to the floor.
Tucked into an egg, I roll where you reach me;
your reaping fingers glide through my hairs,
blades in a grainfield, each stalk
bending and returning, in the moving
making patterns with the others.
I wonder, with what's left of thinking,
if the Earth feels her fields sway
and trembles with the living roots
in her thin scalp, when the wind touches.
-- Jody Aliesan, 1969
