A blanket of grass folds back like a coverlet, revealing a damp, loamy hollow where a woman rests.
Bed of Grass merges domestic ritual with the primitive urge to burrow, staging a return to shelter that feels both instinctive and faintly ominous. The familiar gesture of tucking in slips toward something subterranean, ancestral, and unsure.
She dreams among the earth, folded into the slow cycle to which she will one day return.
