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Deliverance MAG
I brush my hair back,
Smudging a cheek
With dried earth and sweat.
I dig in
To be rewarded with a pill bug,
Curling under the threat
Of my sharp weapon.
The wind ruffles my hair
As I cover the new crack,
Keeping him safe:
One less casualty.
Drinking sour lemonade,
I toast the weeds
That remained untouched;
My back arches under the sharp threat of the sun.
© Anonymous
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