She calls in the night,
in the blindness of three AM,
her black loam throbbing . . .

This is not the first time
I've slipped away to be with her.
We've made love on the breasts of hills
and wrapped ourselves in thickets
at high noon.

Not always always gently,
I have peeled the sod from her shoulders
and slid into her steel hard -
made her bleed,
and still she loved me.

I have dressed her in clothes
unbecoming her nature;
made her lay bare on cold nights.
I have taken food away
from the mouths of her babes.

And now again this night
I lay with her - cold this time.
And once again she takes me in.