No Home on the Hill Ellie Ritch The detritus of the herd— Upturned Earth and hoofprints Dried to obscurity in the sun. And the bones Like old plastic Are shifting below the paper blanket Laid down by the trees. Sinking further into the Earth with the passing seasons. You and me, we walk Kicking up the leaves And disturbing their sleep. Wind blows from afar; It takes leaps and bounds over the rolling pasture. And the air only sighs at you And whispers to me Of years to come In these hills, where we could stay together Rooted to the land where I was cultivated But where you were transplanted. While the wind takes its long steps Over the Blue Ridge. The hills beneath sleep, And they all wait, Sinking further into entombment. Leaving the bareness For us to plant ourselves here. An empty place waits
For me and you 47
