Is This What They Mean by The Hill?
No matter your age
there's still the same
number of hours in the day
The rural pearl that unfurled and curled was hurled
over the hill where my freewill
turned to clover
and I rolled
and rolled.
Summer Again
Soaking up the rain and whipping spit of the waves, as he stood next to the ocean of my memory, a fire hydrant in a red windbreaker, glaring in the midst of a water storm, how I wished it was summer again. Matching silver rings and glances over coffee, army jackets and annual cigarettes, looking at the stonework on the buildings forever, necks craning to see the falcons carved like gargoyles, high enough, on their third story ledges, to amaze us but not so close as to pose any real threat. Under the willow tree, I will always be, with his hands on my shoulders.
