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