Hollow of Their Hills

And so we build upon that which is now no more, so much of it being lost

Or adding to that which remains, erect and still standing, and thereby

Walk in the shadowed footsteps of those who came before us,

Along their creek paths or kitchen doors, among their ruins,

The stones and cairns untumbled, though sunken and moss covered.

We do this knowing or unwittingly setting our feet in the old prints

Of their path; we do this with honor or ignorance, but we do it

And may sense the keen edge of wonder or knowing or both

When we pass by the low mounds and hollow of their hills

And hear the faintest whisper of their voices echoing down that silence,

The dull thud of old and rusted hammers, saws and axes, the creak of long

Rotted beams and harness, dry as dust, clinking in the shadows.

I’d like to think I’ve heard their voices among the old stones and markers,

Urging, pushing against unfathomable silence, reaching across unspanable vastness,

Desiring, in us, to touch the living world with hands unimaginably hungry

And drink the green sunlight and blue sky with thirsting eyes.

I’d like to think that I’ve heard them there, but certainly I’ve felt them,

Leaning into the light, thrusting into my heart this craving for one more

Press of warm, sweet lips upon soft flesh and the flash of eyes

And the exultant feel of love and lust between thighs and hot breaths.

I have felt them longing to love and being happy and well pleased in ours

As we made it upon the sun-drenched crest of some hill of meadow

Or in the crumbling ruins of long fallen bank barns and houses

Where only the birds and the bees were our living witness

Or heard you crying out and sighing against the wind in the grass,

You and I gently touching, sprawled and fairly glowing in the aftermath.

I think we honor them in this way of our living so freshly, loving so closely

And I feel the good pleasure of all things in these moments upon the grass,

Our hearts colliding within our chests and these old spirits smiling in the shadows.

Eric M. Petit