Things of Earth
A gold-framed picture of my son, smiling in his very first year.
The hand-carved mallard small enough to fit in my palm, a gift
from my wife, purchased at the Peabody in Memphis back in ’88.
$1.06 in pocket-change (seven dimes, five nickels, eleven pennies).
The ubiquitous black iPhone. Two toothpicks (as yet unused).
And my father’s gold pocket watch I now wind and carry each day.
Should it continue to snow on snow, as it is right now, and not
stop but bury me like ash in those ancient civilizations, these are
the nightstand accoutrements an archaeologist birthed with
the labor of remembering would sift through, my omphalos to
reveal nothing at all or everything at once about my constitution.
All I know is that whether I lie down or rise up, they are nearby.
I like the birch trees. I like the horses, but this is a welcomed change for awhile.