Life on a Hill

I imagine life found on a hill with the greens
bursting into movement by a gentle wind.
Children laughing in play,
a mother sitting against a trunk watching what really matters live.
Birds singing, high chirps  of the young still at play,
serious work for growing.
Two boys in a tree, legs dangling, sap on knees, on  fingers,
sticky smiles from suckers.
A blond girl jumping from one branch to another tree, proud.
A girl with dark hair blown back to expose her gentle face,
concentrating on setting  future milkweeds into the sky.
Her soft hands lifting them eagerly as the seeds drifted off.
The mother watched her life pulsing through these miracles.
She smiled as she watched nature guide their minds.
Let the hill be their fort, their house, their need in discovering such secrets to living.
When the children were played out they came and gathered
by their mother’s crossed legs.
She opened a basket,
took out sandwiches and a glass bottle of water to share.
Water dribbled down lips, down necks to the inside of sweaty shirts.
In the setting of the day, the sun slipping beyond the hill
the mother packed the remains of wax paper and the empty
bottle into the basket as she stood.
Together they skipped down to their shelter, to beds, stories,
and soft pillows.
The mother embraced fingers with hugs
from her own wrinkled ones
but from afar not one could tell the difference
as they all raced joyfully down from their play.


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