After our gold rush
I did not find gnarled nuggets,
just a little dust.
•
Dishing up the dirt
came easy to your rough hands.
My spade lay broken.
•
Then
•
I covered my eyes:
signs were creaking in the wind;
the gaping gate sagged.
•
Now
•
there’s no looking back:
I reach down the throat of life
and pull up my roots.
•
After our gold rush
I do not seek gnarled nuggets,
just a little trust.