"gravel pit"
My mouth, a stony hole, offers up chipped teeth,
coarse sand, broken promises, the dirt of desire.
Endlessly it produces more than the battered trucks
can haul away. Tremulous heaps form at my feet,
categorized by the size and nature of their need.
From grit to boulder, a mountain range forms.
Despite the rain, the sun, the determination
of these words, this is a barren place.
And silent, save the churning of pleas,
the tumbling of a thousand pebbles
of regret. The dust? Oh, that is hope.
How persistently it hovers about my lips.
© 2006 Dale McLain
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