by Rosemarie Wurth-Grice
I found a line of a poem lying beneath a pin oak a kernel smaller than an acorn
larger than a hummingbird’s eye
Something so small and so large
I could stretch it over the moon’s face let it shine for a little while before
falling
from clumsy fingers
falling
between
leaves of grass
falling
deep beneath hairy white roots
where earthworms feast
tickling the bones of my long-lost pup buried the year after I lost you
lost like my grandmother’s wedding band I wore planting roses
lost like a thought upon rising
lost for words of a song you always hummed.
Pegasus 