Yakabatanidzwa ruzha

When her brown hands meet the orange of the earth — I understand nothing. Whether it is the earth that has wrought her, or she who, in turn, remakes it — I cannot say. I watch until the watching becomes impossible. Until brown softens into ochre, ochre deepens into brown, and the boundary between them simply stops existing. They are swallowing each other quietly. Neither resisting. Neither afraid. I long to dissolve like that — into something that would hold me as I hold it. My soul already know