Hunger Mountain

By Violet Russell

The ferns pressed assumptions to her hips, 
Where the curves stopped and spirals spun, 
A figure so becoming. 
Brooks babbled out braided hair, 
And made rivers down her thighs. 
Let me lay awhile in 
Her shade and shadow, 
Where blooms a great plum tree’s 
thousand white flowers dance. 
So soft and shallow, her sleeping breaths, 
Too gentle to cause a wind chime unrest, 
Yet I am afraid I’ll never stop shaking. 
Is it summer when the Black-eyed Susans grow 
Between her every finger? 
Or is it a new season when I watch 
Her wake greeting me with eyes a-glow
as midday sun casts magic 
Across the mountains?