Sunday On The Hillside Poem by Fred Rik Kesner

Sunday on the Hillside

Rain threads the green expanse in silver, each drop a whispered footnote to memory.

You and I stand beneath that vast quiet— hands half-lifted, as if to pray.

The long stone walls hold the summer's promise, moss-soft and patient against our murmurs.

Your voice comes slow, a benediction to the ache of what is gone and what remains.

Around us, the hillside breathes in gentle hymns, ferns bowing in the sacred hush of rain—

and I learn again how love can rise like dawn, even when all night's shadows press close.