Thursday, August 7, 2014


The squirrels are working
They play so casually and fluid,
Trunk to branch to stem
Nipping leaves at the twig
Loosing green walnuts
 In a random cascade to the earth below
These green gifts
Dropping like flakes and meteors
Falling to rise again
Passing through space and time,
Perhaps a prelude to winter?
The unspooling of the seasons,
Maybe a kind reminder
That these are cherished moments
Rich and slow
With light still high in the sky,
Warm on bare shoulders,
No need to shrug and cover, yet.
Seeds and nuts are gathered and planted
So sensibly and easily
They do the right things,
So it seems.
I wonder what I have planted in the human way:
A word, a kindness, a kiss?
What have I brought down
And then raised up again?
I watch and wait
And wonder upwards
For the messages that are sent.

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