Made Lazy by Love

In the poem "Red River Gorge" the speaker says, "The red gorge sprawled to my horizon / like a woman made lazy by love" (Harris 4).  I love the image of a woman being made lazy by love.

I picture her drifting down a babbling brook on a float, an iced-tea in her hand, maybe a margarita.  Or I picture her being the brook, flowing over smooth rocks, morphing to their contours perfectly, pouring over small waterfalls and bending effortlessly to bank curves.

I picture her lounging in a hammock in enchanted woods, white sunlight peeking through green leaf spots, with purple-skirted fairies tending to her, handing her pink flowers for her hair, orange flowers to nibble, white flowers to leisurely peel petals from, tossing them into the wind or letting them float downward through the weaves of her hammock.

I picture that her body has melted into absolute comfort, breath flowing in Divine order through her lungs, down each leg, to her toes, back up her calves, across her back, along her spine, to her head, where it swirls to the front of her nasal passage and completes its cycle before she has even noticed she is breathing.  All day oxygen enlightens her body, giving her heavenly thoughts, sensations, and feelings.

I picture her rolling perfectly composed songs off her tongue and basking in their comfort without realizing she is the one singing.

I picture her skin spreading out, out, out, so that it becomes the love-ether we swim in daily.