She could start digging
at an angle
through dirt and rock
and iron crust
until the cave grew long
and glistened
with old rain
and her shoulders
would slide through it
like in a birth canal
and she would struggle deep
in black hard-pan
till after centuries
the ceiling would grow thin
and there would be lights
and she would crack through
into another land
close beside a fire pit –
and the grave
of a well-loved dog.
.
(c) 1995, 2012 Betty Hayes Albright
Seasonings 
I like this. 😉
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Hi Willow – thank you!
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I love this, especially the part about coming up beside the grave of a well loved dog….what a beautiful image!
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Thanks very much for your comment, kazhancock!
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The ending seem somewhat sad to me…maybe it’s just my mood at this moment.
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My mood too, Charlie. Wrote that in ’95 in a wistful state of mind. Thanks as always for reading!
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Mystical, magical. with a strange power.
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Glad you caught the feeling, Ben – it was one of those poems that sort of wrote itself at the time….
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WOW, Betty–that’s the best I can muster, as I’m without better words!!
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“WOW” is always great to hear, Caddo – thank you! 🙂
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Such a mystical feel to this one, Betty! Wonderful, deep, mysterious,
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Diane, thanks – I always enjoy your comments!
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This is another one of those technique poems, Betty, building upon improbable images that shock the reader into suspending disbelief, but then ending in an even more improbable place–at a dog’s grave. Maybe you are a mystic. I think I’ll accuse you of being one. How does it feel to be a mystic, anyway?
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Thomas, thank you – I’m honored to be called a “mystic” by you. It’s one of few labels that appeals to me, though if true, I’m a fumbling one. 🙂
Never realized this poem had a “technique” – it was just my “spirit” intuition taking me on a journey to a special place in my heart. Very right-brained, as most of my poetry is.
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