terroir

The soft brush of the robes that swirled at his ankles as they passed over me was rapture. He bent down close, and I offered no resistance. Bare feet and rough hands touched me deeply, digging, reaching into me. I am crushed, freed, by the gentle fingers. Raising me to meet his lips, he tastes my depths.

I remember little before the first roots snaked their way through me. My dark, unyielding mass fractured until I became open and alive. When the roots moved through me, I was forever changed. As the vines met the sun, the roots climbed deeper still, reaching for the dark, wet layers of time, breathing in new life.

Now I connect with other masses, minerals. Large and small beasts feed me, burrowing into me, making me their home, and then, dying into me. My rapture deepens. Seasons bring warm sun, cool moon, powerful winds, exquisite rains. Fruit blooms, ripens. Falling from the vine it returns to me, tasting like me, like every part of me. The seed alone is left to create anew. Create, ripen, harvest, rest, and again. I am complete.

The monks come no more. There are no swirling robes to caress me, but hard, fast metal. No fingers reach into me, touching me, tasting me. Now, many hard boots walk over me, many fast hands pick the fruit.

And yet I wait for the warm caress of soft robes, gentle hands, bare feet.

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