acorns, and the little red berries that
pop on the tongue.
the click of jaws,
specialized teeth for pulping,
finding the sweetness
beneath the shell,
within the fruit.
something louder than a bee,
more painful than a horsefly,
a crack like an old ash falling.
blood, ancient instincts, the pumping of legs
through the autumn muck.
I might be safe here,
where the red maple leaves
coat the ground, where
my trail is hidden in their
sanguinity. I will rest,
just for a moment.
build up my strength.
it is hard to get up,
and my eyelids are heavy,
and the snow is falling so daintily
it is hard to imagine anything wrong with the world.
perhaps,
beneath this blanket,
I will rest a while longer,
and in the spring I will bloom.
