The Hill

Alone and sleeping on a hill,
dreaming of my dreams until,
I awaken to a bird, the third
of songs I'd overheard,

Hearing beauty in a sound,
abound in tree tops all around,
from air to ground the music fills,
the space I've taken on the hill,

A symphony of life is still,
orchestrating time it fills,
dancing shrouds of clouds
are crowded by the trees until...

A crashing storm brings wind and rain,
refraining from my own disdain,
I remain alone and still,
in quiet watching heaven spill,

Refuge under tree and leaf,
free to hide and free to flee,
from grieving demons free to see,
bereaving cries beneath my grief,

Solace from malicious thunder,
the turmoil cannot rend asunder,
nor quell this magic spell I'm under,
my wonder on the fell,

Minutes from the storm's descent,
without the feeling of relent,
unyielding rain, wanes and falters,
my alter on the hill,

Bursting through the skies unto,
the sun erupts the morning view,
with reds, yellows, greens, and blues,
the truest of the rainbow's hue,

Wary of the respite calm,
like psalms of David gathered on
a hill drawn by the hand of God,
a fawning picture vast and broad,

Serenity of my soul to keep,
once I lay me down to sleep,
the vestige of my tempest stills,
left to resting on the hill,