Is this the year of the cucumber,
Sliced, day by day, and layered
In a sour vinegar of dill and thyme,
Capped, boiled, chilled, and lost
In a far corner of the pantry?
Or is it the year of the pickle?
Will it have that perfect snap?

Connections words do not make.
Bereft of touch, they are fake
Similes for the tepid mind,
Thoughtless, breathless, blind
As a worm working the ground,
Shaping caves without a sound.
We need saws, calloused thumbs,
A pickup's metallic thrum,
Two-by-fours, shingles, nails,
A nephew's muddy, red pail
Hauling blocks caked in clay
Dumped at your feet to raise
As a wall, a roof, a home,
The line, the stanza, the poem.