Grass

GRASS

			Along the lawn I lie, my ease at noon,
			the sun warm on my back--
			or sometimes, in the lull of evening,
			amid tabletalk of worm and beetle,
			comes the keening of molespeech, 
			old groundhogs chuckling deep underground.
			And always, I hide a thousand sins--
			the odor of decay, dead bird or animal,
			lost coins, a ring, a spoon, a shard of glass,
			the key to someone’s house dropped-- long ago,
			the bastard child buried near the climbing rose.
			In autumn, I will pull the leaves up over me
			and dream of crocus in winter snow,
			the sound of human voices in the distance,
			roots traveling under my feet.

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