I walk up the hill—pines look at me, their faces now I see, their trunks adorned with ballota leaves whose flowers make such fine wicks, those that grandma used to lit at nights that burn still in memory. I walk up the hill—tiny bursts of colour light up my feet, hawkbit, crocus, cyclamen. I walk up the hill and fall to my knees not to pray, but to be among the humble, the beautiful, the holy. Humble, beautiful, holy—to be no matter what. Cranium tilts and vertigo creeps as I walk down the hill—pines hiss, their voices now I hear.
Oh, how lovely. I'm taking a deep breath because of this poem.
Oh, I pine for the walk among crocus and autumn leaves crushed under foot, your poem releases a sage scent and a wick of light to see my path way as I tarried to long and the day grew shorter as I walk slowly home in the night.