Buried Poems

Under 60 slick intriguing crap catalogs,
under varied meal preparations every day,
under each day’s pencil-sharpened newspaper sudoku,
under Sunday’s New York Times Crossword Puzzle,
under Mariners games,
and Rachel Maddow,
and Castle
and Project Runway
and the NBC Nightly News,
under trips to town through evergreens,
under trips home through winding miles,
under dinners out with friends,
under the sunlight of visits with son, daughter-in-law, grandson,
under throwing the ball 100 times
for Goldie, our border collie,
under Facebook and Farm Heroes Saga,
under All the Light We Cannot See,
under The Goldfinch
under Bel Canto,
under planting and weeding,
under never enough sleep no matter how much,
under the shock of the loss of loved ones,
under time with husband—conversation,
hugs and kisses, rarely arguments,
under cover of grown up sex,

they somehow burrow upwards,
spring forth like dandelions
joyfully up and into themselves
through cold and hard
gray concrete sidewalks
and sometimes
through a fissure leaps
a tulip, a dahlia, a daffodil, a rose.