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Weather and Hill


“And then I rose

to the dazzle of light, to the pine trees

plunging and righting themselves in a furious wind.”


Chana Bloch


Leaves exploded from branches of aspen and ash.

Willows waved in wild wind.

Only the mountains stood firm beneath the white

breath of sky. Down the street, my neighbors

strove against gusts, all of them bent at the waist,

heads down, their hair tossed and torn.

How I loved them then, battered and scarred,

clinging to their dignity. I loved their gray faces,

the grim progress of their perilous climb,

every painful step, shins aching, feet blistered,

bodies buffeted and forced back,

then up again, driving against weather and hill.

I rose, dream-webs still clinging to my eyes and lips.