Meditation in the Afternoon

There comes a time when you

sense how air stands still

as mist floats over the birds

at the feeder.  They chatter

among themselves

agreeing, disagreeing,

some rushing at others,

beaks like swords,

some eating together side by side.

And then the mist lifts,

and the air is solid and cold.

One bird flies at the window,

into the reflection of tree and sky.

As the brain breaks down

and the breath concludes,

it sees what once was

but now no longer,

not there in the light

where the breath stops.

Mountain

Year 1

The mountain rises above the vineyards,
a thought enveloped by clouds,
a dream I keep climbing  
slogging upward, always upward
into the green fuzz of spring
that darkens into summer,
and fades into purple.
Rain hugs the mountain.

I come from flatlands
where willows bend into the river
and no one thinks about heights.

He took me to the mountain;
we climbed up to the snow melt,
our faces creased with dust.
He waved his hands toward the vistas
as if they were his. Antelope, elk.
Men on horseback looked
and looked away.  At  night
I covered my head to seem
like part of the tent.
The mountain was nothing more to us
than going up or going down.

Year 2

I'm going to the mountain today
by the dirt road.
I rest at each plateau
and remind myself
that what seems like nowhere
is me talking to the mountain,
rain on my shoulders,
hair like autumn grass
that blinds me as I climb
to the ridge of sea fossils
pushed up from other lives.

Page 3

© Copyright, 2016, Nellie Hill.
All Rights Reserved.