poetry

Hill’s Quilt

By Amy Thomson

Gone mute,

words left in concrete,

scattered in cracks of sidewalks.

 

Car horns

replaced with robins’

melodies that dust the air.

 

Asphalt

replaced with soil

that resembles coffee grounds.

 

Trees reach

for the cyan sky,

like the steel buildings back home.

 

Shiver

as the sun kisses

every inch of eager skin.

 

Quiver

as the wind carries

the brook’s comforting babbles.

 

The hills

tucked under a quilt

of tartan chrysanthemums.

 

Much like

the ones that wilted

on our kitchen tabletop.

 

The thought

floats out of my ears,

joins the Kingfishers above.

 

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