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.