In the woodwork

The worms are in the woodwork

happy to be buried

because they can not be knowing

what was can grow again

if they think of sunlight

as similar to love.

It only takes one ray

like a knowing in the soul

to bring forth the manhood states

of perpetual forthrightness

and an upright stance

in the aura of a need.

But dark and dank and listless

it’s like the worms are sad

and to be as one unloved

sits like a lump of dough

soggy and un-risen

in an unenlightened mind.

I have the sun, the know of love,

but of course I’m not a man

and I can’t make things happen

like the chop, the saw, of wood and “stuff”

that unearths a squiggly worm.

There are wishes in the sunlight

for worms to rise and grow

before the soft and pliable

becomes a state of mind

and the woodwork closes in.

And is a worm not like a man

and sunlight like a woman’s love?