the year sweeps seasons
like a passionate cloud
from these soft hills.
and the bitter cold is here
and the turbulent waters
and the fire that talks loud and soft,
singing of snakes and angels in the grate.
and the hush-now, hush-now of cars
speeding past to work in the draughty town.
the trees dark and bare
sliced in thin moonlit night.
yesterday, the deep, blue-shadowed snow.
now, a knifing wind, a fast melt
and word of valley floods.
bless the bones of things,
though they may ache and ache.
on bitter slope the memories slide.
it is a thin sinew
holds everything together.
—
simonhlilly 