It is the curve of a woman
that holds up the sky,
skin burning sandia pink,
adobe orange, chamiza gold
at sunrise and sunset.
In dark folds of her flesh
writhe speckled, scaly things:
her wit and mirth
awaiting warmth or prey
to draw them out.
A thousand fluttering birds
nest in her juniper broom of hair,
iridescent wings blotting out the sky,
with songs that chirp, warble,
screech to pierce the heart.
Her eyes, sweet round fruit
of the prickly pear,
draw blood like a lance,
mingle sour
and sweet.
Meet her gaze,
stain your lips
with her complexity,
catch her convictions
between your teeth.
– Ceridwen
Ceridwen's Sonnet 