A pile of bricks is a window into the miracle of life and our sense of home.

 “A Pile of Bricks”

Jimmy dumped bricks three feet from the garden’s black cherry gate.
A haphazard pile like the tires burned on SR 3012 where the 
gray-coated mangy mutt barks when I glide by on my single speed.

And not.

It was slated to become a tiny wall for a fecund bed of 
nose-twisting garlic, a ring around the dill and hollyhocks,
the boundary for feet to recognize and respect.

But I paused each day when the miracles living in the bricks’
nooks and caverns and the grassy chutes showed.

Lifting each brick, moving them from the waypoint pile 
to their new destination, I discovered thriving caverns.

A brave jumping spider, 
small as my son’s pupil 
leaped across a colossal 
gulf to safety.

A grass spider mother, 
egg sack below abdomen
scurried into the depths
assassin beetles burrow.

Two wolf spiders, 
buried beneath, 
mandibles eager to sink, 
raised their arms to box.

Today the pile was moved. 
Tomorrow more will be again,
like crickets jumping through the fence.


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