The Mole

I took this photograph of a mole recently while walking through my neighborhood. Reminded me of a poem I wrote years ago.


The Mole



She was ignorant of the sky

and everything it could not hold.

She fell upon the green earth

to de-evolutionize into a mole.

As a Small she was the victim

of many carnivoroustic rites:

one day fleeing from a feline,

one day scratching off the mites

From this vantage point of obscurity

there was no meaning but “to try.”

She tried to keep on living

as while trying not to die.

Music was but magic noise

too loud for little ears.

“Art” was just an anagram

for “tar” to hold her fears.

The calendar she counted by

had no days, nor dates, nor years.

Every awakening was a lifetime,

each night a gift of tears.

And soon she had forgotten

all platitudes of her former self.

She had left behind the luxuries

she hoarded upon her shelf.

For a mole must do what a mole must do

before the grass turns rotten.

Still the humans gaze upon the sky

and know not they are forgotten. 



Image & poem by@Craig.Boehman


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© 2019-2020 By Craig Boehman

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