The Hill

What shade of thoughts can sneak into
the ancient and reshape her? Blue or purple?
Neither can? She is a firm spring under
the soft bed; content as an owl in
the high tree of night.
She finds a tweak in her wardrobe
for seasons. She winks in the dress with
dandelion prints; dances in alfalfa-purple
bedsheets; loves romancing couple of garden
snakes in the tall grass; thrilled when the bunnies
chase the mice; be in awe when a buck with
grand antler gathers his does and forage
in the moonlight.
All these will be the past, when the hand of
bulldozer of city planner, smooths the land,
or, whittled away by Mother’s precarious hand.
Hide your trivial concern; she slips your note
under her pillow, glance at it only
in her dream of night.

©Byung A. Fallgren