- Feb 5, 2025
- 1 min read
Poem knows
where I’ve been
in my mind
Poem watches
as I lay down
for a long while
in the gloaming
atop
decaying maple leaves
a soft sweetness
hummus
Poem isn’t concerned
he knows this is
grist
for the malady mill
scoops a handful of
the ground bits
spreads them around
soon-fertile fields
Poem resumes his post
sentinel
for words yet
to break through
sprouts waiting
for the sun.