For Winslow

The substance of God
is in the hills.

In their lines, their
color, their voices.

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In the deep purple of
dusk, fiery red of
autumn, in the
black branches of
the winter
time.

In the snap of the
screen door
in the porch voices,
and the first at bat
of a reluctant spring.
In confidences.
In swung fence gates.

It is the very frame
of the hills, their
juts and crags, trails,
pools, descending
roads.

It is buried under snow, blows
with leaves in fall and spring,
sits still in summer heat.

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