Correspondence with Rolling Hills

“This is my letter to the World
That never wrote to Me—”

Emily Dickinson

Green hills fold forward in the distance
like an envelope folding a letter
from the earth within it.

Watching from this window
I have some correspondence with her,
dancing white flowers

weaving down the mountain in arabesques,
an unsown patch in bloom at the base
like the mark of a question.

The sun is filling the cracks now;
it is that time of day when the hand
of a mail carrier changes the seal.

The bright orange glow fades behind a silvery crescent
and from the space behind the pane
I glimpse an instant of the corner coming up

maybe it is some deep breath in the grass
or a laborer sighing, tired with making
the hills over and over.

Imagine what the written words might be
the hand of the earth, I think,
must be calligraphy,

each letter connecting at a slant,
inky like the creases of the hill.
You might call this beauty,

though I see
one moment curtsied before a window,
the hills all wild with color,

so many shades of green bowing in the
The silhouette darkening

speaks to me more of uncertainty,
like books on the sill
that will never be finished.

A horizon of unbroken bindings,
they hold questions to be asked