The Wind and the Hill

That hill,

Out there,

Furred like a Persian cat,

Rippling as the wind writes hieroglyphics on it.

That wind, they tell us,

Comes whorling and scrolling,

As ocean currents do,

From the ends of the world,

Bringing news

Of suffering and celebration;

Carrying talk of me,

My hill, and more,

Back whence it came.

Through the wormhole of time,

I see my youthful self

And feel again that world wind

On my face,

Marvel at its paisley scrawling,

Across the smooth volcanic breast

That looms above our makeshift army camp.

It takes away my fears

And, small price to pay, for just a moment,

My hopes, too.