Tick

A tick lay dormant in the grass —
decades, still as a pepperflake.
Such purpose — to hatch, climb
a leaf and wait, indistinct, hidden.

Such grit — to remain unmoved
save to climb, once again, each spring
from the brown and winter pillows,
to the green lunging shoots.

I’ve much to learn about patience.
A deer will pass — auburn.
A deer will pass, brush
this damp arching leaf.

A deer will pass and in its soft
sidejaw forage, never feel me
in its forest of fur — neither the bite,
the bloat, nor the falling away.

Such is the cadence of epiphany, this
hunger to greed — the thought of it
burns on the back of my tongue,
still and — hot as a pepperflake.

Image: Patrick Hendry on Unsplash

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