Lying in a Mound of Leaves

I lie buried
under leaves, the ground
cold beneath me
like the floor of an Indian burial
mound, roof beaten by rain,
broken windows of light
scattered through mica hallways.

I lie still
and wonder if, when I get up,
the outline of my body will
shine on the earth like snail silver.
I hear my son calling and calling.
When I burst from the mound
he screams, then laughs, then runs
into my open arms.

Kip Knott | Mudlark No. 26
Contents | Two Fires