Jan 25
MEDITATIVE WEEK OF POETRY: JUSTIN HUNT
You’ve always loved them. Bison, bears, and horses, too, mammoths sketched on the walls of caves, the ancients’ outstretched hands, all those palmprints in rusty, old-blood reds reaching for the life after, children yet to come.
Remember the arrowheads we found after rains in our first garden, that Stone Age knife I unearthed, those coins someone buried in our front flower bed, the newest from 1884?
What will they know of us?
The daffodils you planted? The mossy stone I laid on our old Lab’s grave?
Will they stop to say, Listen! Somewhere a dead man sighs. A woman whispers, We were here. We were here.
