I dug a hole in the ground to bury my doubts
near thin yellow bushes that die after five years.
Standing over my open pit, I shout questions.
They settle. I hear no response and cover them.
My fears are ten feet away, interred last weekend,
where the weeds are dense, bramble with long silver thorns.
I start to stack my sorrows for next week’s labor
beside brittle vines choking the memory stone.
— Published in “Narrative Northeast″