I've been down
several rabbit holes that lead nowhere.
Gone and come up in the same field of thoughts
surrounded by the same trees and sun,
the same faces
that smile at my dirty knickers
dirty elbows and little bits of
found things I pocketed along the way
that sparkled in the low light and no light
or were sharp enough to prick notice
in the little quests for depth.
They all keep leading
back to the surface and
I am beginning to wonder
why the other animals keep sharing the same stories
when I empty my pockets and explain
the wow of where and what and
I'm starting to believe
they like to hear me laugh and smile
as much as I keep prompting them
to tell me about the things
that keep them above ground
that I have not seen.
Or maybe I'm not a rabbit at all.
Maybe I am a ground hog.
And every day I come out through beads of morning grass
is an entry into the same day I left and
memory of the passage
is only what I've pocketed
in bits of tin, bent plates, and spider legged dreams.
So I'll count them
turn them over and poke them in the sun and listen
to their dots of clinking punctuation
around the words I try to dig up
beneath the storied fields
in which you lie.
