Summer, the sun cut and burned
like a dagger seared in a campfire
and the valley slowly cooked in its wound.
I have better hopes for autumn.
Just beneath the earth’s surface it is cooler,
even in summer, and the tangled roots
reach down, down, down
to the woman who lives below.
This is the woman who is one with this valley,
not owning the valley,
and also not owned by the valley,
but one. Together.
The earth is her flesh,
and the plant-roots are her hair.
And then, far below, miles and miles,
there is fire, the magma of the planet.
The fire of life.
Roots under the earth, sun above.
Flesh of the woman, flesh of life.
Life above, and the stuff of life.