by Matthew Dickerson

Weeding my way from the pea pods
to the wax beans, I catch a whiff
of decay. I remember a deer once hit
on 116 whose stench lingered for days,
and we could not let our dog off leash.

Weeks of rain have made rivers
of our trails. Mud fills the meadow,
slurps at my sneakers, and soaks
my socks when I head out to harvest
raspberries and black currants.

But the cat concerns me most —
the cat I buried in a cardboard box
late last winter, with the help of my son
who dug into the frozen earth. We later
planted flowers in the soft soil.

Looking at the small lake that
has spread around the cosmos,
and smelling that smell, I wonder
if we dug the hole
deep enough.

Honorable Mention in the 2025 Arthur Wallace Peach Memorial Award. Published in the 2025 Mountain Troubadour.