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.
(Photograph by Frank Bennett, New Zealand)
And is a worm not like a man
and sunlight like a woman’s love?
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