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From the dank deeps    under dampened compost,
to my amazement,    there now emerges
almost unspoiled    a metal spoon—
stainless steel,    from the ancient stash
of our wedding booty.    Wondering how
it came there, I mull,    and memory mumbles:
The sandbox sat here,    out of the sun,
and the great excavations    of small engineers
ate hours of summer,    ages ago.

Not a sound now    of summery childhood
stirs in the yard.    Instead, these strangers,
tall and tense    and text-message crazed,
very occasionally    visit their elders,
chewing on worry,    stirring up change,
spinning out life    by spoonfuls of latte.

Thus worketh wyrd,    with its usual weirdness:
spoon as measure    of their dreams and mine.
But let stealth and steel wool    act in this story.
Buffed, burnished,    and back in the drawer,
let the spoon re-up      with the regular ranks
as though double decades    could disappear.

—Maryann Corbett

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