The Little Things



2016-03-27-16-59-33

 

 

 

 

 

it isn’t dying i mind
it’s just that i
imagine when i do
i’ll never again
need to search
for the words to describe
just how that surface
of cracked prairie mud
baked hard in the sun
reminds me of my dad’s
weathered hands
or how a waving
field of barley
carries me home
you can’t dig a fingernail
into the furrowed bark
of a poplar
when you’re dead

are there
lichen-covered rocks
growing on a hillside
in the afterlife
do ladybugs transcend
can you hear
the crackle of
fall leaves
and will my
bones know
they’ve turned to dust
it isn’t dying i mind
it’s just that i imagine
when i do
those tumbleweeds
along the fence
might miss me

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Agony and Ecstacy, Life, Nature, Poems, Poetry and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s