the house was new
untouched by ghosts
or the dead who like
to sing
the weeds were growing,
we took a spade
hooking through, like
a needle
into the hearth of dirt
until he found red again
as we laughed
despite all the water.
Poetry 365
Inspired by Billy Collins' Poetry 180 project, I post one poem per day here, for at least a year. | tags by author or subject | contact me here
Tagged
Stephanie Valente
