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The Squirrel

By Wayne Jackson (1951-1989)

His tail quivers delightfully
With each hop
As he crosses the frosty yard
And he raises his head,
Attending to what's around him,
And climbs the tree
With short bursts of speed
And pauses to listen
And enters the hole
In the very top
I know
I need
To prune that rotten part,
Paint the stump of what's left
And burn the rest,
That kind of wood
Helps start the green
Wood I burn
And it would help
Save the tree,
But I need that squirrel more
These cold mornings
And I need that hiding place

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Copyright © 1997 by Donald Wayne Jackson, All rights reserved

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