Pinnacle Hill

A man walks up a hill,

Weaving his way through soft, long grass.

The golden sunlight illuminates the field.

A sea of yellow, waves rippling from the swift wind.

As he stands on the pinnacle,

He looks down upon the green rolling hills.

A lake is nestled in the valley,

It’s glassy surface is spotted by gusts of a summer breeze.

He takes a deep breath,

Appreciating the crisp fresh air.

There stands an apple tree,

Branches bowed under the weight of a hundred ripe fruits.

As he climbs the tree, he goes limb to limb,

Hunting for nature’s roundest, sweetest creation.

His teeth dive through the red skin,

Indulging upon it’s succulence.

The man stands alone.

Soft earth and grass below him,

Bluish pink sky above him.

He hears birds chirping and squirrels playing.

A lone eagle circles above.

As he walks along the ridge top,

His hands graze the trunk of a young maple tree,

Each finger feels the intricate maze of its coarse bark.

Here, he feels peaceful.

He is no stranger nor intruder,

He is part of this place.

He understands that it exists in a delicate balance.

And while it nourishes him,

He may not take more than he can give.

This world is an escape.

Away from all the chaos and obstructions of society,

Into a world governed by the soil, the insects and the trees.

At night he sleeps in his bed in the village,

But during the day he is at home in the hills.

This poem is a elegy/description of a place that is very special, Pinnacle Hill in Lyme NH. The man, referred to in third person is me.