The Earth and Earth
Working the wet earth,
bonded by standing water, as expected
I do not find ghosts,
but a layer of small stones and black roots.
A cracked pathway. Cats still.
My neighbour thrashes in the bushes,
looking for a son called Son.
The afternoon has stopped itself.
A window open. Curtains open. Music.
Why is Vivaldi so inhuman?
poem by Leslie Philibert
Added by Poetry Lover
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