raises llamas for backpacking and grazing rights.
Chickens too—free range laying hens.
Bereft of rooster
they brush against her ankles like kittens
and drop their eggs when she strokes them.
I would be this woman, beloved
She’s tan, with long hair
twisted in a braid around one ear.
No beauty parlors, no facials, no pedicures,
not even in the summer when she trades
her boots for bare feet.
No diets. No gym.
I’d loosen my own lids with ease.
She grows artichokes for the looks alone,
and jars tomatoes, pears, plums, apricots.
In my dreams I taste peaches,
and smell cut basil.
Red wriggler worms, sleek, graceful,
weave in and out of her compost,
copulate among coffee grounds
and apple cores.
I would be on intimate terms
with such creatures.
With the earth, too. I’d dance naked
in the rain
if I dared be that woman for just one day.