(C) Copyright by Matt Lany
Will's Hill
Between feeding he plots the route
as the spoon, the cursed spoon,
circles back and stuffs more mush
and scrapes his bib and slathers his lips.
And while Will naps, supposedly,
after he feigns fatigue and lulls his eyes,
he rises in his crib with tight fists
around the bars to hold himself straight
and gazes out glass at his hill.
And today, he decides, he will climb.
He hips the unhooks the latch and weaves his way.
and he reaches high to crack the lock
and with a giant pull pulls back the door,
and outside the air is so cold,
and the sky is as blue as blankets.
His legs don't yet work quite right;
they swivel when they should step plumb.
But lately he's mastered balance,
and his motor is fresh and his will like steel,
He clocks through the yard at a rollicking clip
and soon the green land starts to slant.
Up he steps and trips chest-first.
His boots slips and he throws his pacifier
at crows who caw at his advance,
at the dog who guffaws and the cackling raccoon,
to all those naysayers
who doubt his chances to crest this hill.
He digs his fingers and jams his knees
and wriggles his middle like a snail-snake-soldier.
He has lifted many many blocks before,
but this by God is work,
and for the first time in his one year life
Will's heart beats hard. It thumps
in his chest right through his fleece,
and his sight dizzies with breath.
He gasps and blows breath
that explodes from his throat like smoke,
But he won't stop. He can see the top, and it calls.
Wiiiil, the wind moans.
He is close now. Snowpatches the summit and gullies
in the sun and with one last lunge,
Will, great scaler of mounds, is done.
From atop his hill he looks down
on a world he never knew was there.
He sees an eagle drift and dive
and rise and glide by so close
he feels feathers smooth his hair.
And he notices how the valley's cut
and roll swells in one red-gold design
that he knows, instinctively, he is part of.
And beyond he sees it does not stop.
The ever unspools forever.