The Hill
by Mark Strand
I have come this far on my own legs,
missing the bus, missing taxis,
climbing always. One foot in front of the other,
that is the way I do it.
It does not bother me, the way the hill goes on.
Grass beside the road, a tree rattling
its black leaves. So what?
The longer I walk, the farther I am from everything.
One foot in front of the other. The hours pass.
One foot in front of the other. The hours pass.
The colors of arrival fade.
That is the way I do it.
It will be no surprise to you how much I identify with Mark Strand's poem, Ruth.
ReplyDeleteNo surprise whatsoever.
DeleteOh, this is a stunning piece, it really speaks to how my life feels lately, how I walk on, into, around, over, in spite, because of everything.
ReplyDeleteYes.
(until this moment I thought comments weren't enabled on 'small' - I'd have poured a little praise on other postings earlier, had I known.
I just opened comments this week, Wendy. I wrote a little explanation in the comment box explaining it a bit.
Delete