by Al Ortolani
Dear Diary…As a rodent,
I am not interested
in sunlight. It bleaches mystery
from the fencerow, washes out my hope
for surprise. Snow is predicted
tonight, a gray storm crawling
in from the west. Two weeks, six weeks,
what’s the difference?
I will be here with my shadow,
crouched below the roots—
waiting with the wild onion,
the garlic, the tulip
to corkscrew up
from the secret bulb.
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