February 26, 2019
This is holy land.
She is a diverse wonderland of peaks and valleys, rough terrain with desert oasis, fertile plains and sturdy oak. A watery sack laden with miracles and memory.
The seasons have waxed and waned as they do, marking her surface. Childhood stamped in a faint white box on the tender skin beneath bottom lip, echoes of a caped wonder woman on Big Wheel. Knees battered from dribbles and drink. The scalpel battle scars on hilly breast and grassy pelvis, faded now.
Tracing fingers over the lines of a map. This is who she was forty years ago, four days ago, four hours.
Now her climate roils in uprising. A fire within, flashing hot, burns away to bring forth new territory.
This is holy land.
