The
Mole
by Phyllis Beebe
The mole is
blind.
Eschewing light,
It lives its
life
In darkest night.
Tunneling in endless
muck,
Eating root and worm.
Careless he of
other's hurt
No love he cares to
earn.
Building nothing in his
course
Through lawn or meadow land.
Dying
lonely, what is worse,
Unmourned by mole or
man.
