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.