Bob Weaver's Little Trick

Bob Weaver’s Little Trick

In the ocean on the island
In the woods in this hole
I dig as the siren
Screams in my soul

I sink slow
The blade dull
Closer now
Each Shovelful

The sun sets
Sparks from the rocks
Make silhouettes
The dead man talks

“I am nascent”
He spoke fragile in bed
“All is not as it seems”
Is all that he said

Up to the neck
It gives me a scare
Each root gets the ax
I know he’s still there

Old Bob Weaver
Summer heat in his garden
I saw him collapse
And begged God a pardon

As a boy he had planted
A small oak tree
In its shade I recanted
What I thought I could be

Tangled in vines
Frail and tortured
I left him to die
And turned toward the orchard

I went to the place
Where he put the X
Turned up the dirt
And searched for the text

The moon had vanished
So deep I was stuck
When finally I heard it
The box I had struck

I pried it open
And read the scroll
“are you building a mountain...
...or digging a hole?”