I fear that I will never be
A towering grandeur of a tree
with leaves that dance when winds pass by,
and limbs that stretch toward beckoning sky.
When spring returns, no birds will race
to build a home in my embrace.
I won't be here, alas, alack,
for I've become a critter's snack.
if there's to be a desperate plea,
one final hope and prayer,
then Mr. Squirrel will bury me,
and won't remember where.
Acorn's Lament ©2012 Teresa Rodriguez
This tree-hopping traveler was born of a doodle that begged for completion. And, though I initially tried to think of a suitable story for the furry subject, my sympathy went to the poor nut clutched between his paws. Perhaps instead of becoming a meal, an oak tree's potential will be fully realized, and someday Mr. Squirrel (or his children) will be happily frisking along its great branches.
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