The Woman On The Hill

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Up on the hill
she stands
seeing from a muffled
distance the world
below her
lazily unfold
row upon row sit
the weavings of humanity
and the workings of God
drawn together by
singular divine hand
swaying gently
dizzily traipsing
and dancing along
smudging like watercolors
the lines between
the have’s and have not’s
familiar scents tickling up
heather and sage
one and the same
of the deep mossy loam
springy and moist
beneath her feet
sounds also drifting up
children laughing
dogs barking
crackling of the fire pits
somewhere Amazing Grace
in shy contralto sung low
wavering in and out
carried away beyond the
circle of lights
all of it distant and softly removed
important and yet
somehow not so very at all
gloaming romances away the sun
rising from the shadows
from where she stands
before swirling and
colliding into the coolness of air
the light of day finally
reliquishing its hold
blues and purples
loosed in velvety whorls
fighting for space in
a thickening mist
fading away
all other sound
the curtain falls
she is left to herself
with only the whistle
of the night breeze
soughing and sighing
against her ears
a world apart stands
the woman on the hill
~Cynthia Niswonger~

1 Comment
  1. Stephanie Stone-Merrick says

    As always, incredible. I love your innate ability to make words find one another and flow each to the other. I can feel her experience there high above the world and how each individual part inserts itself while standing apart from the others. Timeless.

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