The Nature of Living on a Hill

Fall dropped hard and fast
Like a hot potato cooling into embers
Reflected by the maple leaves
A side wind
Slunk in from the north
Shaking leaves
With urgent fingertips
And curling dust devils
Snaked through the windbreaks
Stirring life into crisp fragments

Winter snow showered from the north
Like a hail of feathers from a snow goose
That stumbled through
My uncle’s cross hairs
If the wind stopped
And lay down for a nap
The sun glimmered
Like a lighthouse across the snow
Signaling snow-mobiles
To make port

Spring, the sly wisp, stole in slow
Creeping up the banks
Plumping buds
With moist fingers
Her breath a cool
Sweet balm for the abuses
Of the winter
Blurred with fiery indignation
And battering fists
That pummel her art
Until the canvas is blank again

Summer breezes
Humid as sweat
Sail through the grasses
Waving emerald strands
That glitter like snow
In the mid morning light
And envelope skin
With feathering fingers of light
The heavy perfume
Of sweet grasses
Melting along your senses
Until you belong