Within the range of distinctives
of nasty red, the Capitol black
the ethereal albino instead
he aligns with the eastern gray
and the western gray.
Yet who would be saint of the squirrel?
Not Lord Rama, who caresses one
as a pet. Nor the cultivating Hermes.
The Blackfoot know him as Old Man.
As he was becoming.
* * *
of course squirrels have faith
of a practical sort
in running the wire, in leaping from a branch
and landing a full eight feet between trees
with such airy jurisdiction
* * *
in a flash such as music
or the tail as a sail
just leap
and grab hold somewhere
* * *
the question, at heart, what was in his blood?
as well as what was it becoming?
not the patriarch, then free from bondage
* * *
overhead, the years overlap
underfoot, the roots tangle
to be light, then lighter than pigeons
or laughter and tears
become gray pussy-willow at the end of winter
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To read the full set of squirrelly poems, click here.
Jnana's Red Barn 