Hike Before a Funeral
by Rebekah Eklund

The familiar dirt trail,
fragrant with the spring smell of mud.
In the ache of silence

I follow it absently, climb steadily
up, into the steep hills
rising above the city.

Wind smoothes the reddened stone.
Patches of vivid green ?are:
glint of new needles.

My cheek to the butterscotch bark.
Overhead, the outstretched limbs
spiral into strong noonday light.

Blue: blue deep as new paint,
brushed in a gentle curve,
the sun bright as honey.

Aspens like white gasps
between the pines.
Spring surprises me,

carves into my coldness;
sunlit woods rush into my emptiness
sharp, new, their warmth and scent

shockingly tender, touching me,
here and there with shadows,
the whispers of leaves.

I long to stay here, rooted to this stony ground,
sheltered under these great spreading arms,
learning stillness.