Poem On: Day 12

Bunnelby (#659)

Foundation, garden, grave. We dig
when we think we belong, when we hope
work matters, when none of the above
is true. Dirt and effort are the sure things,
little one. Dirt even for you, born
to mine the green fields: trapped in nails
or hair after days and cartoon bubble
scrubbing. We all bear marks for daring
tell emptiness where to be. Worth it,
my strong-ears, my tiny month-flare.
Worth carrying the earth as long
as it takes. Move. Hide. Stay with us.