by Katherine Hoerth
I reach the top of yet another hill,
my heart a blazing star inside my chest.
Over my head, a heavy slate cloud hangs
about to burst into a gentle drizzle,
let loose another dalliance of rain.
Down below, the vista blushes green–
the wild rye in bloom, the farmland pocked
with flashes of pastels, the endless pasture
where goats graze languidly as if the world
eternally stood still. I gaze ahead–
a tractor rusts, returning to the earth
between two amaranthine cypress trees.
Today, the only hurry is my own.
My eyes, two open primrose blossoms, drink
the sun, the wind, the season as I run.
I make my way downhill as gravity
tugs at my ankles. Thunder rolls as raindrops
fall onto my skin, the cool reprieve
ephemeral as sunrays beam through clouds.
My face blooms red again like all the firewheels
that surround me as I pick up speed.
I lose my breathe to all this loveliness,
take it in before it disappears.
Come June, the color drains from every flower.