Little burrower digs out a hole
In the dirt by the side of the road.
Wayside borrower watches the work.
Spring in high desert is a warning
Almost more ominous than autumn.
Winter’s over. Can’t sleep through the heat.
Is this a back door or a front porch?
Exposed to the road, how far beyond
The reach of hawks do you think you are?
You seem naïve, not even watching
Me tracking the shadow of your head,
Your nose serving as shovel and plow.
For myself, I would like you to thrive,
Would like to see evidence of life
By your entrance when I come up here,
But my encouragement won’t help you.
I have an unfortunate record
Of instinctively backing losers—
Wrong philosophy, wrong poetry,
Wrong mouse, wrong house, wrong identity.
What I plant tenderly dies on me.
Well. We’re here for today, you and me.
So long as nothing else notices
Our work, we’re free to remain naïve.