The Tunnels at the End of the Light
the entrances to
the tunnels you’ve seen
them in the bent winter
grass on slow walks
through summer gardens
the holes where
ants and bumblebees
descend the gates
to shallow chipmunk dens
the openings to
the passageways
of boring moles
the woven ovals
hidden by small gray mice
in the crumbling architecture
of thawing meadows
the groundhog’s burrow
the small crack beside
the boulder leading to
the parlor of cold snakes
the tiniest gaps through which
incredulous crickets crawl
to trill in hidden corners
of what we think of as our space
a world of tastes and
scents and touch
buried under thorny brush
beyond the world of sight
we claim as ours
a refuge and escape
to places thriving
unseen and bright
behind our walls
beneath our feet
a counterpoint to
concrete cities
and towers of
decorated rooms
to these coddled anxieties
and blinding dreams
no judgment about
whom we love
to what we pray
no point of view
for the woke or vigilante tribe
to which we subscribe
no mechanical clock
measuring the fading hours left
to our most cherished lies
succumbing only to the disease spawned
by the vilest of human thoughts
that god made all of this for us
but have faith
do not give up on hope
near the closing of the season
a cantankerous intrepid few
like the brightest autumn leaves
gather in a neglected city park
or at the end of a sweep
of long abandoned meadow
together touch the ground
reach beneath the surface of the soil
curious to discover what's underneath
a forgotten acorn a gray squirrel
buried for a winter meal
now ready with a bit
of warmth and light to sprout
deep strong roots
an idea dropped from the
filibuster of our creation