Hills

Some hills,

are icy,

they seek the title, mountain,

vie for heights,

With pointed stares they

threaten storms, shake their heavy regal clouds,

and turn cold backs.

 Others,

spiked and barbed with trees,

In somber hues declare,

a state

of wilderness,

that no one ever dares to penetrate.

And there are hills,

worm comfortable by children's sleighs,

and grassy afternoons,

That spread green skirts

and gently wait,

for picnics, kites, and

those

who seek a wider view.

Joyce Effinger