This is an acreage of blue, alfalfa flowering, a flood that covers the contours of the land, and suggests what is underneath. She has good bone structure. When the wind comes, blue and green argue for prominence. Her skirt is shimmering rayon in summer light. Something, invisible, is happening. In winter, snow does something similar, like linen sheets defeating her sexuality. And, with time will come the fabric's thinning, parchment wearing to crepe and tissue. The ice blue of spring's creeks, the burnt red of autumn leaves, these colors puncture this thin veil of winter. The old woman's blood is just below the surface, like the alfalfa, like the wheat. The landscape remembers, like her features, framed by the long strands of her hair, spun cotton, bleached. The sapphires of her eyes are still bright, but fading, chalk from the bluffs bubbling up in the flat lands, killing the possibility in the land. Possibility in the land, you want to know and command the fecund mystery of seasons. Her breasts, her thighs, the flat belly anticipates her desire, the desire she evokes in men, evoked when she was young and her flesh and fat was flushed with warm blood. Summer is still humming, the hidden voice in the alfalfa. There is a secret beauty built on the bone structure of the land.
Lie down, lady fair, lie down naked and let the wet marshes absorb you. The tendrils of your hair and the roots of tree and weed intermingle. Your body is the cresting hill, the coulee's cleft. What will be left of you? The seasons turn and tease and please you. You return. The landscape personifies your beauty, remembering, with a shiver, your bone structure.
