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Wednesday, February 17, 2010

The Hill

There is a world outside my window,
            rolling down the hill,
and skidding to a halt in the dirt below.
            It stands in a huddle, laughing-
debating about who knows what.
            But its whispered voice
is stolen by the wind
            And through this portal,
I can see the tendrils of conversation.

            This world-
the one outside my window,
            rolling down the hill,
thinks it is alone-
            alone with its backpacks and books
sitting by themselves on the sidewalk,
            waiting for the world to turn,
and roll back down.

            The rolling world that
I see on the hill outside
            my window,
stops
            and looks up
and stumbles over untied shoes-
            tumbles down the hill.
And the lonely bags are punished for their patience,
            their contents spread across the ground.

And the world, the world on the hill outside
            my window,
picks up its papers, scatters,
            and walks away. 

1 comment:

Writeroo said...

Happened on this blog. Loved this post :)