Her hand broke through the loamy earth so long ago.

The richness of her breath reaches my nostrils

as I lay cradled in the shady ferns.

Her skin is deep and furrowed

Dark brown and damp it plays host to many soft things that like to hide at the edge of sight.

She reaches thick fingers up toward the light that she no longer needs.

Great and ancient is her tongue

but the people no longer hear her voice

For, she speaks no more

Resting

Waiting

To fall.

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