Hills Poem by James McLain

Some hills.
Higher or shorter.
There out and some upon.
Knowing you,
is it not better never how too long.
Wanting the hill upon, even wishing
the hill, through the window, seeing it.
Safe here in your warmth,
where you stood up to gaze, herein
as well there out upon and simply.
And in the early wanting of it,
to remember the why of it instead.
Each branch and limb that rubs
all night,
against the warm window pane between.
The tree up against it and how it
leans against the wind,
leaned you out there in to sway.
Being in bloom so fanciful must we,
make it come, when it can not be seen.
When it can not in winter be so green
it comes around each spring again.
To the spring, from which you sing.
and night and day and day and night.
The sun above,
moon lies below in wait for spring.
Until it does.