Sleeping on a flowerbed on top of the hills

Dandelions, roses, and—daffodils.

Eyes closed, dozed.

Flowers trampled on by a tiny goat,

The daffodils turned black and bloated.

A thing emerged from the soil

A liquid of some sort.

Coming this way,

Couldn’t run, I trudge

And I fell deep

Into the heap

Of black sludge.

                                                           - 1-3-2019, J, happy birthday.