EVENTUALLY EVERYTHING RISES TO THE SURFACE

The sun swings to the north,
its zenith higher each day.
A few spring rains wet
the hard cracked clay and the fescue
grows rank, moist and tall
and gathers dew in the mornings,
that prisms the sunrise air.

The spot beneath the apricot
tree, bare from the boards
and bricks I stacked against
the marauding paws of dogs
determined to disinter the grave
of our beloved cat Fat Ted,
now crawls alive with ants.

And a few thin pale stems
of grass cringe confused
in the light, trying to remember
the recipe for green, how leaves
should purr in the photon flux
but find now that they
can only meow to the sun.


© 2002 by Richard W. Todd

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