I want to climb mountains
Again.
Cross meadows!

Not just meadows.
But MEADOWS!
Meadows with soft spring
                    grass,
Flowers jostling for attention
       beyond granite stones;
Oak trees leaning over
       dreaming cows,
   As if they knew what a mother
               hen felt about her chicks;
Small, slow moving streams
      Carrying bits of
          unidentifiable, decaying
                flotsam
In fascinating starts and stops,
        Inviting a wayfarer to follow
            Their course with eye,
If not with feet.

I held it in my hands.
An impossibility of reasoning,
Sitting in stark contradiction.

Now,
I know it can he held,
Be examined,
But I can't prove,
Nor do I want to.
For then I will prove to myself
It never, nor could happen.

All, one time or another
in their lives,
Have,
Or will, hold time in their hands:
They must,
For it is a part of their
life-giving,
life-sustaining,
life-getting force.

And,
When you can't hold it,
Won't hold it,
Then you have sought death.

That
you will hold,
For the compulsion is beyond
you to forego.
You can't stop yourself,
For you do not control your life force.

 Come to my hill.

Let the wind blow across your body.
Sit on the grass
and let the earth absorb
tensions,
the worries,
the fears.

Hear the insects hum.
Hear the belled cow.
Hear the cry of the hawk.

Feel the warm sunshine as each muscle
relaxes.
Smell the sweetness.

Come to my hill
and find deep within your mind
places opening
you had forgotten
were there.

Warmth rushing behind your
thought;
strength surging through your veins
as man again becomes
one with creation,

walking
at peace once more
in the garden

that is my hill.

Today,

The sun was slicing through
The fog in ribboned streaks,

Tearing edges,
And dropping wisps
Slowly to the ground
To be absorbed by green
bushes

Or
Entrapped in bare, twigged
trees.