HillShadow
Time is measured by the peaks;
the backlit sun all at once speaks.
But here our plodding, muddled wills
live in the shadow of the hills.
Fear
Early morning,
I was woken,
to my dreamy mind
was spoken,
“smoke, smoke, smoke”.
Myopic eyes,
without my glasses,
more obscured
by noxious gasses and
smoke, smoke, smoke.
Reckless grasping
for my senses,
panic had no
false pretenses—
smoke, smoke, smoke!
I had practiced
my evasion
should there be
such an occasion of
smoke, smoke, smoke.
Gathered my things
to and fore,
then leapt from
the second floor and
smoke, smoke, smoke.
I'm not sure
which is worse,
sight obscured
or reason cursed by
smoke, smoke, smoke.
Midway through the
air, I found
a first floor exit
safe and sound from
smoke, smoke, smoke.
And by descent,
I could see
what fire was
the agency of
smoke, smoke, smoke.
‘Twas my neighbor
burning leaves,
pungent clouds
beneath my eaves of
smoke, smoke, smoke.
Twice the sting,
goodness knows,
when one lands
without their clothes in
smoke, smoke, smoke.
I Samuel 14:15-23
The poetry and images of
Kenner Beckley
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