Milkweeds ripple the face
of the hill in a rash.
If you claw deep,
the dirt bleeds out a white
powder. It is July now,
and you know the next
time you climb this hill
you will be alone, and the hill
will be either taller
or shorter, and the sun –
depending on the month –
will be closer or farther away.
If you were any type
of religious, you’d take
this to mean something
or nothing. But you’re not.
So you let the powder filter
through your eyelashes
and blink away what comes through.
And thank God it comes through.
Jack Stallins
Louisville