Michelle Taylor Poet Rhyme

The Woodpile

Creep around the stacks of wood
To see if something's there
That shouldn't be there if it could
Before it vanishes into thin air
Watch it crawl away too fast
With a face of mud
Because its face has long decayed
From death and time and blood
Follow hard upon its track
And you will not come back
Snatch you down its muddy hole
It makes its nest and naps.

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Jo Chamberlain May 7, 2022 at 1:11 PM As a child I was obsessed with turning up stones and decaying logs to see what lurked beneath, most of the time I'd scream as it scurried out. I enjoyed your poem, nicely penned.