I sit here and read the signatures
on an elevated plaster cast
that supports a splintered tibia,
remembering the ill advised
reason for its creation.
As a young, inconsiderate boy
the ant hills were the most fun.
A stick or a kick delivered
a few minutes of amusement,
watching those little critters
rebuild the farm.
The little blue fallen eggs
became yellow window art.
You could get a new free bunny
after chasing off mama.
Ground squirrels
and water hoses,
what fun.
The late morning air
was so thick
it was like trying to
breathe pudding.
The storm left little
of Mother Nature’s
or man’s building materials,
except for the Elm
and the lone blue egg and nest
lying in its now partial shade.
My epiphany drove me
up the tree with egg and nest,
my atonement more solid
than the trusted branch.
I sit here and read
the signatures
and watch the ants
rebuild the farm.
Rusty Daily
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-sit-here-and-read-the-signatures/
