New Sod Poem by Sona Wilae

This day of sixty fruitful weeks shadow
pristine relics of bundled keepsakes
adorned in obsolete gazettes of passing
snow storms, puppy training and next door's
junk mail.

Transition logs re-call six states,
five military orders, four duty stations, six
rusted buckets of salted moisture
saturate St. Augustine sod transplanted
from pallets.

New horizons, new cacophonous chirps,
new frayed nerves of civilian jitters, quilted
furniture unveils new dust trails, and old
scratches of worn happy shoe scuffs
trigger goosebumps.