He pulls the string and knots it, pulling out
the striped stake taken from the croquet set.

She squats at the end, eying the line,
this time tightly gripping the stake. He grabs

his hoe and begins cutting through the soil
in sharp strokes, just under the string. He works

his way down the row, carving a straight trench.
From time to time he stops, unearths a rock

and flings it out of the yard into the pond.
Kerplunk! He never misses. She listens.

The frogs croak in chorus, their calls echoing
beyond the cattails.  He rolls up the string.

© 2011 Kim King


About k2king

Francophile, writer, poet, and mother of Samoyeds
This entry was posted in My poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Lines

  1. magical word painting. love your way of doing it.
    keep inspiring, you are a true gem poet.

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