In honor of National Poetry Day, a poem about digging up a place that was once alive.
Velvet buds acquiesce
to their senescence,
tumbling to the ground in adulation
of the incoming weeds.
Plastic bowls and absconded kitchenware
stuffed with dried buckthorn berries and
Leftovers of the children’s last supper.
Paint stretching away from
sagging wooden companions
revealing the depth of their combined
Peanut butter jars repurposed for
bolts and nails of every creed and race
tucked in with the dust of sporadic observers
coming to pay homage to the deceased carpenter.
Hushing headlong into the antiquity.