by rosemaryrae

she went up the hill in the morning

boots sinking easily

through the earth,

pale, freckled hands

deep in pockets.

hat on crooked,

cool wind flowing in her hair,

the chorus of wildflowers

in her veins

filling her up, up,

up the hill and to the top and looking out

at life, at death and darkness,

and she above it all,

and there was a warm light within her

shining in her eyes,

spilling out with singing.