not a stone unturned

if we were playing a game
under the umbrella of the fall equinox.
and you supposedly hid little notes for me,
written in devilish calligraphy, under certain rocks.
in my little english garden.

and if i were to try and find them.

and i picked up every piece of earth bone fragment i could find.
and i toiled for demi-hours trying to find these  messages.
turning the little garden into a trashed mound of earth.

would you not then


Reasonably


say that i had not left a stone unturned?
it would be no cliche.

in a perfect world, it would be merely an astute observation.
but in our verily imperfect bubble. it rolls off the tongue
with overused blandness.

-Pamplemousse