I put away an hour in the granite where the grass is thirsty, buried it in silt through which the salvaged years slip quietly in streams. I dug a little tomb and laid to rest an instant with the ashen images of footprints where you walked and where you lie beneath me now.
I robbed a moment from a brook nearby to pay for days more quiet, tried to square a debt with the erosion of this slope but overlooked the price of things unsaid and sunsets slept away. Yet I’m awake right now upon the composition built of granulated stones and ground subsuming ground subsuming ground, and in the movement of it all is only stillness and the whisper of a pebble settling, come to rest beneath abating rain and damp perfume to breathe before it’s hushed.
I put away an hour in the sedimented earth to keep for later. I put away an hour in the hope tomorrow when I need it I can find the strength to climb.
I put away an hour thinking somewhere in the sand and dust a veign of soil might feed it for the day I need a softer path. But now the grass is growing and the grade is no less trying, and I’m afraid the hour I put aside has slid away.