Our Mother's Ideology

I love the way the ocean 

looks like the curves of your thighs, 
How it ripples the same way your
fingers thread through my hair. 
The breeze croons sweet 'n salty 
nothings as you whisper in my ear,
sea shells and sirens' calls intertwined.

I love the way the mountains
remain untouched by men.
Virgins in their own right, do their
stones ache the same way mine do,
Or does the lack of carnal knowledge 
blanket their cavities in forest greens
and pinewood, sun-kissed tans.

I love the way the rivers 
seek out paths of least resistance.
Demanding attention only in extremes
but largely gliding around the hearts
and desires of the lone wolf,
Providing sustenance and a guiding path,
only asking for existence in return. 

I love the way the deserts
are harsh and cool in their dreams,
Never yearning for rain to release them
from an unwavering, floating gold. 
Their sheriffs perched passively, 
arms waving scents of prickly pears only
punishing those who venture too close.

I love the way our mother
operates in only psychedelic hues, 
dressing herself in the finest of
lavenders and plums, befitting royalty. 
Lovely and kind, understanding of her 
own self-worth and timelessly patient.