Somewhere under this hill Chris Peters lies,
who last summer dug out a woodchuck's den.
Poor Chris was swallowed when the walls caved in;
Leaf-fall perfects his shallow grave's disguise.
His parents never knew where he had gone,
assumed him kidnapped, lost, but never dead.
The hill's leaf litter changed from green to red
and the Peters still are searching for their son.
A cruelty of hope. Under the hill
their baby's bones are cages for young flies,
and only wildflowers mark his resting place.
I dream on quiet nights lightning bugs trace
his path, and one hushed, lonely spirit cries
for Mom to come, although she never will.
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