Roll on down this muddy road, the handles
guiding me like two prongs of a diving rod,
only on the slope, it’s gravity that pulls
and not water. I’m carrying serious looking junks,
wood for the fire that will burn hotter
than hell, hopefully, or at the very least,
heat the living room through the winter’s cold.

I’ve got a tuneless song on my lips and the whole
morbid weight of December on my mind, but I don’t care.
I’m just rolling this wheelbarrow, catching some kind
of a rhythm as the wheel digs in and releases, digs
in and turns up earth, marking its lone tire track
along the path I travel–drawn by something stronger,
more urgent than the presence of buried water.

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