In morning sun I bend down low
to pick the ready berries
spreading through the patch
To reach those in the middle and back
I lie down prone and support myself
hovering over the berries in a modified pushup
one tensed hand planted in a plant-free zone
while I detach the small red fruits with my other
The hairy tendrils of the running vines tickle my belly
exposed there at the hem of my cutoff while cupped soft white flowers
pucker gently at my breasts
In surrender I lower myself onto the patch
and feel the spongy root mounds
mold my pelvic area
The earth holds me aloft in this never-ending free fall
I have never felt more solidly buoyed
or tethered to the Mother
I breathe in the moss
and my heat rises
I ache and reel in the scent of loam,
my own sweat, and a waft of lavender
hovering close to the ground, sweet on a warm zephyr
I am the goddess of the morning
as I turn to face the sky, lie on my back
and palpitate sexually under the heavens
I throb while the sun traces me
highlights my form
and pronounces me real
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 