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ascending the hill
Folder:
tidying poem
a figure counted once,
standing where the verge breaks open.
Name intact, meaning thinned,
a marker left upright by habit alone.
grasses tilt as if listening.
Their lean becomes direction,
though the ground beneath them
slides in its own quiet argument.
your craft appears sideways—
a pattern caught in the corner of vision,
not quite bird, not quite glimmer,
something that knew how to move without witness.
kindness travels the low path,
choosing its turns the way water does,
touching stone, root, fallen branch,
never asking which part should be remembered.
faces drift to weather,
voices soften to grain,
yet a nearness lingers,
unclaimed but steady in its place.
the ridge circles back.
Old lines rise with it,
not to conclude,
only to continue the climb.
.
