Wednesday, September 27, 2006

#157: September 27, 2006

Down by the stream where Maddie used to play
the field mice forage wild acorn and seed,
while bullfrogs nestle wetly in red clay
and wildflowers shiver where hummingbirds feed.

Three coins glimmer beneath the shallow waves
where tiny fingers pressed them years gone by,
and like a revenant crawling from its grave
a buried doll's arm reaches toward the sky.

Not far away the old house, crowned with leaves,
peers out cracked windows on a weed-choked lawn,
and nothing but the wind through rain-warped eaves
could tell you who lived there, or why they've gone.

All night down by the stream the bullfrogs call
their lovers, and the darkness covers all.

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