Bury the red wheel barrow and the sweet cold
plums and the first fig and the body electric
and the road not taken and the sidewalk ending,
the darkling thrush and the quoting raven and
the caged and singing bird. Bury the art of
drowning and the dream deferred and the red,
red rose. Bury the moon and the stars and the world.
Bury the snowy evening and the cat fog and the lonely
cloud and the other sky, the counted ways and the mad
girl’s love song and the fairy song and the song of myself.
Bury the Grecian urn (and the onion and the artichoke
and the lemon), the homework and the howl, the full moon
and the all-staged world. Bury the pickle belt in the root
cellar. Bury two boys on a pink tricycle and the dreams
of chickens in the pretty how town, the balloon filled with
pretty people. Bury the brillig and the slithy dawn and the
mud-luscious spring and the seashells and the brown penny
and the needle and the tender buttons, and that poor ghost.
Bury it all in your carried heart,
and in your most restless tell-tale one, too.
Hide them in your house
or your second Troy.
Hold them in your red hat or
bury them in your left shoe
or slip some into your gold heart locket.
Or better yet, tuck it all deep into your
Happy Poem in Your Pocket Day!
PAD, day 30.