If I was a tree, I would shake, shake, shake,
My stumpy, thick trunk to keep squirrels awake,
Until enough leaves fall down to form a bed,
On which they can fall and not bump their head.
Squirelling business can be exhausting
And taking a nap will help their defrosting.
I’d look over them and eat their dreams,
Dozens of delicate brown-green streams.
Quick panic dreams are like fast food,
They leave a greasy taste, fear and dread stewed.
Dreams of eating and eating some more:
Your ordinary feast that comes with a boar.
The dreams of squirrel babies sweet and short,
Oddly contain scenes straight from Agincourt.
Sometimes the dream that I’m gorging on,
Comes to a halt and then it’s just gone.
That’s when I know that one has died,
Maybe an old one couldn’t breathe on its side.
I don’t know if what I do hurts,
If it’s in the center or just the outskirts,
Of their life and if they even notice,
If it’s the leaves or the center of their lotus.
I can’t ask and I can’t know,
I’ll keep eating and eating, though.