The Tunnels at the End of the Light

entrances to

tunnels you’ve seen

them in the bent winter

grass on slow walks

through summer gardens

holes where

ants and bumblebees

descend unguarded gates

to narrow chipmunk dens

openings to passageways

of boring moles 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 call home 

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

there is no judgment

there about

whom we love

to what we pray

no point of view

on 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 surrender courage

or yield to despair

near closing of the season

a cantankerous intrepid few

bright and fallen leaves

gather in a neglected city park

or at the end of a sweep

of long abandoned meadow

listen at the surface of the soil

curious to hear the whispering

of what's below

delighted to hide the gateway

to what rests beneath

the cooling ground

a forgotten acorn

the gray squirrel hid

for a winter meal

that now waits to sprout

in the season

of warmth and light

thick roots

bones chewed and

washed by rain

buried in

the filibuster

of creation