My rake stabbed in, out, in like schools
of fish darting at a bait drawn
and denied, scraping the dead leaves, the rake
a clawed hand grasping ground at the edge of a grave
and gosh, the hedge looked fine, when a tine
turned a toad deep in sleep. He seemed to yawn,
stretched out each limb, stabbed from slumber
into obvious pain. He didn't seem to mind. The legs
retracted. He was once again a cold-blooded
lump, now exposed to the sun.

 
NaPoWriMo 2005, April 16