Upon the hill I stand
as still as the trees,
not totally frozen,
for just as their budded twigs
move so does my long hair.
My eyes are closed.
Tousled auburn ribbons
whip about my face;
blown by air as fresh
as any after a rainstorm.
After several deep breaths
I take in the view,
from here the fields
are laid out like one
of Nana's quilts.
But instead of her
magentas and cyans
it is the earthen colours
of early spring.
There are ploughed fields
of brown and the pastures
that are still dull rather
than having the bright hue
of new growth.
It's too early for this hill
to have flowers,
but I know if I kneel
on the wet blades
there will already
be the tightly folded petals
in their green casings,
swelling, ready to bloom.
These long walks in nature
are my treasure,
by sanctuary from the busy
hubbub of my life.
