Over the Hill
by Jon Miller
I will fade to somewhere just beyond your inkling
to the house below the shore road
where leaning on fences is all the philosophy a man needs.
Leave laces untied. Learn an instrument.
Or not. Gather reflections in a sea bucket
and hold a rope for the worst fisherman in the west.
I will raise a slow finger in passing places,
restore dormice and stunned bees to life
as a murmuration dizzies the tree line.
Cup a warm egg, sip tea with the postman
while the sleeping hound twitches in the hall.
I will leave my door open for deer to enter.
The wheel has been off the truck for three weeks
and I have not finished a single book.