by Cat Melvin

The hair of our mother

ripples and waves

in the wind,

flowing green across

the ample breasts

of her hills.

I am undone

by her beauty.

She rises up singing

in the trees

proudly upthrust

from the skin of her body.

The strength of her bones

are stones

that flex and groan and melt

deep in her fiery core.

She is mother—

in all her strength

and beauty

and ferocity.

We are hers.