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I had a difficult time getting into my poetic groove today. It may have been the barometric pressure which resulted in wild winds.

This house eats my stuff, the garden too

The house eats my stuff, the garden too
regurgitates them as something transformed.
I’ve countless times, in seed planting weather
left the trowel lying in the dirt. The red handle
vague against the brown, cultured in grime,
becoming invisible,
lost to the surface and my eyes.

In a familiar story I have lost countless keys
I’m sure many more than you.
The house likes them you see, and the garden
both hungry to keep the owner from entering in.
One set fell off the porch rail, was caused to burrow
somewhere so nearby.
I saw the trajectory, could pinpoint the spot of landing.
These I’ve never found.

Another set disappeared out of my pocket
walking to the car, I swear.
We were going on a trip.
I looked everywhere. Called a locksmith
to change all the locks.  I think the garden laughed
at that one. Perhaps it didn’t want me to
leave the weeding undone.

Perhaps all these things were merely taken
underground.  Patched together, melded,
pressurized by the weight of the soil.
My keys enlarged, rusted, transformed.
Altered over time to a metal changeling.
Or else just traded by the insects one
for another.
Tools for tricycles;
Keys to camshafts.
I could believe I came out ahead
if only I needed a trike.

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