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.
Copyright © Jack Peachum | Year Posted 2021
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