Homeless In A Rural Scene Poem by Troy Cochran

The squirrel that goes from tree to tree
without its heavy backpack on; no cigarettes
to pacify its one or two anxieties; not even a hat
as one, on days like these, would seem to need;
just we two, a bird or three, a breeze, all
homeless in a rural scene, so it would seem;
this fine hour is teaching me the mystic art
of seeing as a squirrel sees.

What I mean is:

Nature in her opulence provides
everything a squirrel needs; even scatters seed
of a thousand flavorful varieties
for a bird to feed.

So must it be for you and I,
so I surmise.

It's just not as easy for us to see
who are not looking through a squirrel's eyes,
how everything we need is every bit as free,
however we may choose to dine, could we but see ourselves
as pampered and divine.

Indeed, it may seem quite the other way
from time to time, clinging so tenaciously
to me and mine, until my feet are sore
and aimless, even my very toes are blind
seeing no way forward; heaving
all my dead weight just to stay alive,
living in a manufactured world.

The squirrel is undulating through the forest.

More a child in a sea of grass, the way
a needle threads initials in the corner
of a tapestry, to claim the day as made by me
with all of We in mind.

No one has informed his little majesty
about this boundless forage; how he must
take on his share of weight, seek other means
for his employment, pay the price of being
properly discouraged.

Me, I sit in overshadowed glory, thinking, thinking, but
he doesn't seem to notice.

Or is he laughing at me, cheeching that
I am a coward, clinging, clinging to my pennies
and other things of no worth anymore?

Why, he's showing me how to be a poet:
'Pounce! ' he seems to say, 'Pounce on the thing
you most desire! '

Oh, to have for my conveyance
such a limousine as he!