Living In The Past Poem by Taylor Rosewood

Bloody shields lay silent
on freshly gouged earth
where nymphs in short skirts
used to spread for me and wink.

There's nothing of them now
but cold December fields
and lights still up on houses
that lose their festive glow.

Somewhere in the dirt
there's a debt that wasn't paid,
or my son's Tyrannasaurus
that went missing Christmas Eve.

But I stop the excavation
when I hear a cheerful sound.
It's the song of a Western Meadowlark,
and he tells me that it's dawn.

And in the changes of his melody,
he tells me so much more, such as,
'If you want it to be a good day my
friend, you'd best be refilling that hole.'