Almost fall, and the hill I’ve come to know

sits unchanged and silent like a congregation.

Uncut grass staggers,

sways wildly in a dazzlement of rainfall

and an aftermath of shine.

You’re here, somewhere among the thistle and shadow

of foxtails and longleaf pines,

a green windfall you’d swear was ocean,

if not for your open eyes,

if not for the pine-tarred air, wrestling an uneven wind,

the doe stumbling out of cover 

to watch me 

walk past the others etched in black stone,

a thousand shades of grey,

quarries of crushed mineral 

in every stage of cinder and breakdown,

polished into glistening,

where the ends of tree line meet ground stream.

Don’t call this a prayer. There’s a reason 

the grass is so green here,

if not for the flight patterns of crows,

the light of the fracturing,

spilling out of the cloud’s mouth.

I only ever wanted an open hand, 

even if It’s my own, holding one plucked blossom,

growing in the wild of everywhere, 

among the goldenrod and heart’s wood,

where a hush of gulls is stitched together

over an outpour. I’m here, 

searching for your name.