April 6, 2021

it will make sense to someone

I’ve interrupted the squirrels again, the ones foraging the side yard. As always, they turn
and glance briefly in my direction, a regard I translate as something between 
“Delicious!” and “We mean no harm.” I respond with a look I hope they take to mean
“Enjoy!” and “Don’t mind me!” When they return to the work of gathering their buffet,
I’m certain they’ve understood. Now, I’m skittering across a fresh page, rooting around
for my own version of acorns. I tell myself it will make sense to someone, this roughshod
cache of words. I imagine a single witness pausing at the edge of every lumpen poem,
a face scanning the pile I’ve assembled, nodding at the effort, the gaze conveying
something between “No rush” and “Don’t worry,” and on the harder days,
“Courage” and “Beauty.”