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Mole
Velvety earthmover, pink spades for paws,
mining for wriggles and nibbles.
You dig, delve and shovel,
breaststroke, through the soil,
a subterranean swimmer,
seeking a trapped sunlight
in the dimly packed dirt.
Myopic mole, surface,
peep out,
to blink at the moonlight,
rest upon your little hillock of labor,
a mound
that testifies to your busy soul.
Push your naked twitchy snout,
up into the wide-open,
whiskers alive to the rarified taste,
of a less muddy slice of life.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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