Buried...
a half a fifth of brandy
sits quietly on the shelf...
a tired old hat hanging
on a forgotten peg.
the flower garden bare,
the windowpane sighs.
the old rusted spicket,
covered by the spider's web.
empty boxes in the closet,
filled with nothing that remains.
wood stacked against the porch,
even the old dog knows.
letters falling from the mailbox,
the ink wet with rain.
my hand buried by the wellhouse,
my heart buried neath the gravel!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
