Holy Spirit
by Virginia O Keefe
She is mother,
her great breasts loom
like gold mounds
of cured grass.
Nipples, hard from infant
suckle, let down milk,
feed fox and fawn,
coax turtles to beget
in rash abundance
amidst sand and slime,
drive willow twigs mad
for pleasured growth
into blazing green,
drench naked man
and hot house rose
with the same intemperate
fire.
Visions