Nash

On a sabbatical stroll
seeking solace
in the serenity of
sawgrass swaying
in a soft breeze

I spot a skittish squirrel
scamper up an
acorn-swollen tree,
seeking sustenance
on this summer solstice.

Southerners seeking sustenance
shoot squirrels,
not for the squeamish,
serving same as a
supper specialty.

Someday, someone, somewhere,
may sense my desire
for sautéed squirrel and
save a seat at their soiree
to sip cider and savor
a slice of Sciuridae.


TP/MMXV.

Snow Balls

As an 8th grade student
I watch snow land on
school window panes
turning hard right angles
into soft white decals of
crescent moons.

Anxious, I await 3 P.M.
Will I be able to make a decent snow ball?

This snow, this gentle, quiet snow
is ammo in a snow ball fight.
Teenage boys play war-games
and nascent testosterone
fuels their efforts.

The school doors become
portals where victims exit
with bulls-eyes on their winter coats.
Boys, girls, school teachers,
all are targets.

The snow is pliable
and can be packed into firm ovals,
thrown fast, straight-armed
or side-armed.

This war is short-lived.
We are chastened and chased,
warriors on neutral ground,
where we, once allies,
turn on each other.

Teenage snows are the snows
remembered for the
reckless joy they gave.

TP/MMXV.