Hillside 

 
quilted hillside 
I taunted her,  
"What can I fear?  
Not fearing death,  
what is there to fear?"  
Dust speckled small edged
oak leaves.
 
She accused me.
I knew the answer. 
 
Afraid of life  
if death is black velvet endometrium.  
Afraid of living  
the minor encounters  
endlessly.  
Accused.  
 
She bent over me  
with her reasons  
fullness like a plum tree  
in the height of its season  
soft      warm      fragrant;  
whisperings,  
muted whisperings,  
songs of cherishing and 
of hope.  
  
I could see the hand-sewn quilt 
with circles of blue 
spread on the shaded green 
in the dappled green 
resting 
under the tree. 
  
 

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