Hills

Some hills. Higher or shorter. There out and some upon. Knowing you, is it not better never how too long. Wanting the hill upon, even wishing the hill, through the window, seeing it. Safe here in your warmth, where you stood up to gaze, herein as well there out upon and simply. And in the early wanting of it, to remember the why of it instead. Each branch and limb that rubs all night, against the warm window pane between. The tree up against it and how it leans against the wind, leaned you out there in to sway. Being in bloom so fanciful must we, make it come, when it can not be seen. When it can not in winter be so green it comes around each spring again. To the spring, from which you sing. and night and day and day and night. The sun above, moon lies below in wait for spring. Until it does.