We
See
spade-shaped leaves
growing
in dark morning
ditches.
Feel life
in the penumbra.
Shadow-friends
wake
on the periphery.
We know
only one friend,
grow one rose.
I Walk Up To My Grandfather's Grave
having not seen it one year.
Within that time his house
burned. The tea bushes
gape, an orifice for fallen
black teeth, charred
bones and oars.
Where the doorway stood
is a rectangle of limestone.
The nearby dying elm
is a mast full
of miniature sails.
Copyright © 2003 Rustin Larson