A poem, a bit of language,

yanks on my hand

impatiently as a child

eager to make me go see

something in the woods,

in the dense clot of pines

just beyond the backyard,

some bit of furry life

scampering, nervous clown,

some shining treasure,

coin or bottle-cap

or heaven-knows-what,

some handmade shrine,

the little one's own homage

to an elementary god.