by Linda Yeatts
A Copperhead molts at midnight.
The skin, supple, ready,
lends itself to a silky split-
Not one quiet crackle
under the wide-eyed moon.
I run up on his shed rippling coat at noon
and scan the yard in a panic.
He hides in the nearby woods.
He seems unchanged in the blinking morning-
Not a millimeter longer.
But the circumference, subtle, swelling,
spends itself with new venom
Enough to fill the pits of his world, his mouth.
Enough to make his mark
parry his problems with poison.
Not one day of this summer will go by
that I donít think of him, look for his shadow
HOME * ABOUT * ARCHIVES * BOOKS * CONTACT
© 2015 GoodGoshAlmighty.com