★ ★ ★ ★
Image by Craig Whitehead
The shovel, striking a root, thunked
all the way down to my moist heart.
An acolyte, I knelt to bury the plant to
Blame me for trusting coincidence
more than fate.
Hold me responsible for rose thorns.
The sloping yard
the memory of past glaciers. Have I searched within
for the gravitational
field that holds me here?
Weeds take over the neglected bed next to the house.
Sharing the sun with stray
snapdragons and tomatoes.
That will forget their names by August.
If there’s a faint, high-pitched whistle
like a bird stuck in the night,
It could be the call of my own breath.
John Kucera was educated at Carlow University in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His work has appeared in New Reader Magazine, The Sandy River Review, Philadelphia Stories and Friends Journal. He currently lives in Phoenix, Arizona.