Squirrels Gnawing Poem by Mark Heathcote

I am an introverted soul
a prickly chestnut opening.
You might prick your poor bare soles
or fingertips unfastening
a kernel-shell that's fallen
on the ground, ripe for eating
ready for winter roasting:
should I stay in hibernation?
Or allow squirrels gnawing-
take hold of me and devour.
But it's all so exhausting,
plated, served up as cold chowder.
Emotionally I'm empty,
but I'm willing next spring to call.
And for love to raise her levy
for just one last final toll.