She made love to the Earth
Lying down on the ground,
the sun kissing her skin on a warm summer day,
she let herself soften.
The grass beneath her was freshly cut,
its scent rising in waves - green, wild, alive.
She reached for it with her fingers,
stroking its tender blades,
feeling the softness,
the morning rain still lingering in droplets
like kisses left behind.
The earth pulsed beneath her
humming with an aliveness she could feel
in the soles of her feet,
in the cradle of her hips,
in the low heat gathering at her centre.
She closed her eyes
and brought her breath deeper into her belly,
then lower,
into her pelvic floor
into the gateway of her yoni.
With every breath,
she circled her awareness there,
spiraling inward like roots searching for water.
Her underwear had been slipped off earlier,
so the grass could touch her skin,
so she could feel the earth brushing tenderly
against her most secret folds.
A long dress covered her body,
a soft, flowing veil between her and the world.
There were people in the park,
but far away,
minding their own small worlds.
And nowhere,
nowhere was there a sign
that said she couldn’t love the Earth like this
couldn’t offer her body
to the place that made her.
Her breath deepened,
slowed,
and began to sync with the rhythm around her
with the rustling of the leaves,
with the low hum of bees,
with the way the trees swayed like hips in a dance.
Energy built gently,
like a secret tide rising
wave after wave
kissing every edge of her body from the inside.
She turned over,
lowered herself carefully to her front,
let the curve of her hips rest against the warmth of the earth,
let her mount of Venus press into the grass.
Her body moved without thinking,
rubbing herself slowly,
gently,
as if the earth was touching her back.
Her fingers gripped the grass,
wet soil slipping beneath her nails,
and her breath stayed soft,
her hips barely moving,
but everything inside her alive
thrumming,
opening.
To anyone passing by,
she looked like a woman reading on the grass,
lost in a novel,
at peace.
But inside,
she was making love
to the sky above,
to the trees swaying like lovers,
to the sun warming her thighs,
to the dirt cradling her hunger.
And she stayed there,
held in that custardy, golden glow,
that sweet ache of pleasure wrapped in calm,
for a whole chapter of her book.
When the energy softened,
melted into a hum inside her limbs,
she sat up.
She brushed the grass from her skin,
tucked the book into her bag,
and stood.
No underwear.
Just the dress hugging her thighs,
her yoni still tingling,
her heart still open.
She walked home,
the earth still moving inside her.
And she wondered if the earth had felt her too
if her breath had soaked into its roots,
if her soft moans had drifted into the branches,
if her pleasure had been received
like an offering.
Perhaps that was love
to give without asking,
to be held without question,
to part ways still humming,
both changed in the quietest of ways.
Love,
Rosie x