It’s hard to make sense when you’re climbing a hill.
Fragments of thought take form in harsh whispers to nobody.
It’s best to find landmarks.
A landmark is a destination.
Rest against a tree.
Wiggle your toes,
over and over,
Let your blood know to go down there.
A dog will make a fine companion for climbing hills.
A dog is not a coward.
Dogs can even laugh at jokes and keep you warm at night by hugging.
Cats are stubborn.
Do not climb hills with cats in snowstorms.
Build fires at night.
Snow melts away at the radius,
leaving mud behind.
The antique skeleton of summer.
Winter always overstays her welcome:
You lose all interest and then she gets all clingy.
You tell her you’ve grown bitter with the way she talks and sticks around.
You’ve already packed her bags and all.
She stands far away from you with red eyes and spit flying,
drawing your verbal caricature; a silly sight through tears like party streamers.
You watch from the window to see her taxi peel out; holding a mirror to a dead man’s mouth.
You smile all night.
You sleep like god.
And then She’s back at four o’clock in the morning,
tossing pebbles at your bedroom window.
It’s funny when you get to the top of the hill,
and you can still see your house from up there.