Squirrels multiply fast around here,
as fast as they run about the yard.
Three new nests in the Linden tree
have appeared,
Hidden by dense leaves
out of view.
The sun hides too.
Her light is now hidden by clouds.
She has stopped dancing amid shadows.
Like the squirrels I am too proud
to simply sit and wait for sun
to show her face.
Without sun
we barely know our place
in this darkened, cooling space.
We no longer dig and play
in garden beds anchored in clay.
The squirrels have stopped their foray
for bulbs planted a month ago,
ceased moving them to a new place
or worse, chewing or eating them first.
The squirrels, and I are nearly as dormant
as the perennials, and as scattered.
My body yearns to find its way,
to dig and plant, to weed and hoe.
It no longer drops onto the garden bench
to rest and watch the birds and bees.
I drop onto my nested couch instead.
The squirrels and I have grown
too cold, too weary
amid days as dark as night.
The squirrels and I have become too quiet.
Sun’s warming disposition
no longer lightens nor warms us.
Birds no longer join us in chorus
as we hummed alongside the busy bees.
Neither of us are ready
for the coming deep-freeze.
We squirrel away.
I on my Netflix couch;
the squirrels find their own
entertainment and playful connection
I remain ignorant of those;
and, so, I and cannot mention
what keeps them tight inside.
My own tightness will not subside
no matter how hard I try.
I cannot blame the sun.
She still hangs overhead.
Like the squirrels and I
she has decided to hide.
annarino writes 