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The High Hill
CHILD OF GRASS
THE HIGH HILL
Time stopped breathless just below the summit.
Curving apples halted on the air.
The sky retained the cold kiss of a comet.
A weasel's darting glance became a stare.
Tight green buds delayed their bloom.
Bees on a lily's lip were stricken clinging.
The wind with mild surprise did not resume
Its worried singing.
All my length was frozen briefly;
My heart hung strangely heavy like a plummet.
Everything delayed, my still heart chiefly.
And then I moved again, and topped the summit.