Squirrel

Lying safe in a bark hole,
using my poems the way
a squirrel would its tail.
Making do with plant buds
of small, simple words in time of spring.
And feeding on someone else’s ideas when faced with hunger.
For then I won’t have to migrate to keep alive
because I love to scurry around familiar territory,
discovering every new tree for a new story
and every piece of ground for nuts.
And I wish, so wish that on rainy mornings
I could snuggle in my own fur
of books, movies, music and tea, and
never have to leave my drey for inspiration.
June 28, 2009