Sawmill Hollow

In addition to small lives
And miniature kingdoms,
The forest floor hides houses

Every wanderer looks for
When certain of solitude,
When no one else is looking,

Searching for the cellar door
That turns the world inside out,
The underground opening

Like a cape to hide the real
Sepals of the black poppy
Peeling back and blooming gold,

Revealing the veiled expanse
Of the chambered memories
Excavated by the roots

And the always falling streams
Carving in caves from above
To deposit their treasures

That proved too heavy to bear.
These the wanderer can't leave
Alone. They open and glow,

They appear unbreakable,
Marbled, however fragile
And altered by being found,

They ring with oracular
Riddles and misdirections
The wanderer interprets

As simple imperatives.
Lift the stone. Reach for your heart.
Rummage around. Find the child

In the empty room, smitten
By sunlight on slow dust motes.
Put him aside. Keep looking.