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Climb the Hill

Don Hynes

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Returning to this world

of terrain and shape

from the timeless

I absorb the morning

like a hungry traveler,

drinking in new light and cool draft.

I move arms and legs,

listen to a crow busy with the news

and put on the old harness

to enter the day’s furrow.

The soil grows harder each year,

long rows bent to the shape of the earth

as I walk along behind the plow of memory.

Perhaps today I’ll undo the traces,

find a fresh path across the meadow

to the clear creek running,

not sow or reap but cast my lot with the birds,

with badger and browsing deer.

Perhaps I’ll trick the dark form waiting

at the end of this long row,

leave the dream to cross the moving water

and climb the hill to paradise.