by Michelle Coleman
I tend to climb high
hills on particularly
pensive evenings
in order to get
a glance of your view from the
heavens, my angel.
(Send my regards to
Peter, for I will never
be as cleansed as thee.)
I trip, fall over
overgrown weeds and wailing
rocks to reach the top,
the so coveted
pinnacle, the peak that is
undoubtedly yours.
Yet I try, renewed
faith each time I climb your hills
because I know that
the slightest stumble
will call upon your kindness;
the dark, your bright love.
