Half-Buried
by Karen Craigo
Eyes-down is how you see
the nests of things, the slim tail
slipping into undergrowth.
Out of everyone who walks
this trail, I’m likeliest to spot
the tresses of the abandoned,
the betrayed body decaying
under ferns. I’ve heard
there’s grandeur in the sky—
clouds and crows and hedge-
apples—but underfoot, things
take cover and breathe
where our boots pass, beside
the tiniest of blossoms.
Sometimes I’ll see a heart
embedded in the path,
but when I pull it from dirt
I lose it—it’s just a rock
balanced in my palm,
maybe more a symbol
of the beloved one
for its weight and its solidity.
My pocket is fat with tokens.
At home, I have bowls of them—
stones shaped like stones
where once someone saw
a flash of something more.