poetry by j matthew waters

rear window

I buried something
near the tulips
and if I give myself enough time
I’m bound to remember
what it was

you were my shovel
my pick axe
stick matches in my back pocket
weathered pine burning
in the pit
on a late autumn afternoon

outside everything is white
including waxing gibbous moon
slowly burning through fog

eventually I can see you
wiping clear the window pane

november two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserve

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