i set my face to the hillside

the cool breeze brushes my uplifted face like a smooth silk scarf.
the smell of morning wetness tickles my nose.

wild flowers, dotting the grass like specks of watercolor from a painter’s brush
bob their heads to the music of the breeze.
nodding to each other- carefully shaking out their petals like a taffeta dress.

small droplets of dew dance off the flowers.
their movement is like the sound of bells tinkling in the morning air.
pirouetting down the stems, they moisten the hard soil with their dampness.
they slide on the leaves that uncurl like the yawn of a warm-breathed kitten.

a warm pink light tiptoes peeks over the tops of the rounded hills and
stretches thin arms over the stiff grass encrusted with the frost of the night.


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