Hedge


.
.
we unload the freight of day
as night wraps up what day has told
there’s not much more to say—
myself in shade, eagle in her hold

both are restless in day’s throes.
few among us really understand
what night becomes, where daylight goes,
who know the ground, the place we stand

still, the worm in unturned earth makes way,
a cardinal, blood red, in a maple’s crown
is more tuned than I am to the stuff the earth displays:
what lifts it up, what presses down

what’s hidden keeps us on the edge
with those we love our only hedge
.

.
by Jim Culleny
4/25/13

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