The Tunnels at the End of the Light

the entrances to

the tunnels you’ve seen

them in the bent winter

grass on slow walks

through summer gardens

the holes where

ants and bumblebees

descend the gates

to shallow chipmunk dens

the openings to  

the passageways

of boring moles

the woven ovals

hidden by small gray mice

in the crumbling architecture

of thawing meadows

the groundhog’s burrow

the small crack beside

the boulder leading to

the parlor of cold snakes  

a world of tastes and

scents and touch

buried under thorny brush

beyond the world of sight

we claim as ours

the dark from which these

ridiculous crickets crawl

a refuge and escape

to places thriving

unseen and bright

behind our walls

beneath our feet

a counterpoint to

concrete cities

and towers of

decorated rooms

to coddled anxieties

to blinding dreams

without a judgment

about whom we love

or to what we pray

without a point of view

for the woke or vigilante tribe

to which we subscribe

without a mechanical clock

measuring the fading hours left

to our most cherished lies

succumbing only to

the disease spawned

by the vilest of thoughts

that god made

all of this for us

but have faith do not

give up on hope

soon a cantankerous intrepid few

like the brightest autumn leaves

will gather with you

in a neglected city park

or at the end of a sweep

of long abandoned meadow

bend down together to ground

crawl underneath the soil

curious to find what's overlooked

bringing the light to shine

on an idea that in the filibuster

of hurried human creation

was long ago forgotten