Wednesday August 03, 2011

A sodden baby woodchuck plows through the dripping garden and tumbles over the wall. A smell of burning plastic on the breeze.

2 Comments



  1. OVER THE WALL

    It is when we tumble over walls fencing us in
    that we begin to learn that there is a garden
    out there we have yet to explore, no rain
    nor any scent of danger will stop us. We plow
    on like that sodden woodchuck through our
    own little plots and ask about that smell
    of burning plastic wafting on a summer breeze
    before it is too late to warn nestling neighbours
    scavenging for scorched worms on brittle leaves:
    The burning sky is falling.

    —Albert B. Casuga
    08-03-11

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