AT HOME

Bless these hills that lend perspective,
teach gravity and train the eye to look
upwards to find horizons truly blue

above black dots of Angus pairs, grazing
as they grade emerald grass between
the oak trees clinging like whiskers

to every crease in their faces – home
a hundred years, it seems, centuries
inhabited by a few who still linger near

old slabs of stone. A man can hide,
grow deaf to the din and stay – busy
as Sisyphus with his rock, or not –

most accomplishment erased by storms
that have worn them smooth and
exposed their crumbling, granite bones.

These hills that embrace in the rain,
holding humble ready as we age
to wear with them, as well as we can.

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