Worm Saving
It rained last night. The quiet
of the morning is deceiving.
I’m aware of a connection
I can’t quite touch,
something that runs through new
green oak leaves, touches
the manure in my horse stalls
and extends to the annoying hum
of my mother.
It isn’t the fact that things are
new or dirty
or even annoying,
but the fact that it
is now
but won’t be forever.
Worms slither on the road
to keep from drowning.
They are hard to collect for
I have no fingernails.
They’ll die under wheels if I don’t
chuck them into the bushes.
Yet when my neighbor passes,
I pretend to study the pavement.