May

With the storm that took the trees, 
in the wind that tugged on the trunk, 
in time with the absence of light,
for the clouds veiled the earth—
here it is that I take a stand, 
revel beyond the hill
that saved my valley, my crop, and home.

The descent
to town got easier as years passed, 
for hill withstood all that the skies bestowed:
a heavy downpour in the month of July
after storms in May that were uncalled for.
But I lived alone, 
in summers put shade on the crops, 
fan the dogs, 
then run inside than further 
from the shadow of the hill
when my laundry went with the wind.

Winters, 
a season that had always been particularly harsh:
for it was the time of the year that the winds started to turn
after clashing with the snowy whites up north.
This time, my house wasn’t secured:
Snow only fell in my hometown,
and up until the cliff of the hill, 
I recall several weeks where I had to starve
with the dogs
instead of making the trip beyond the hill,
for I couldn’t wet by boots in two-foot snow,
or kill any more of the livestock I owned.

It was the only family 
I was amongst: all the people from back then
had long passed, or moved to the west
where the lands ran plain, 
and the weather was warm.

In the ruins
of a village that I called home, 
there was enough brick
to forgo the purchase of anymore
for at least a dozen more times
that a wall fell out.