Garden Shed

In a splintered, cobwebbed cave

my brother and I

make pies from dirt and stone.

We snuck the tarnished spoon,

from an unguarded door,

frosted like forgotten breath

on a window pane.

We dip the dull head

into wet earth,

stirring carefully,

breaking up clumped clots

of brown and maroon,

serving up the warmth.

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About Vicki

Wife, mother, student, writer. View all posts by Vicki

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