And stays. It’s always enough.
The wind that wreaks
Small havoc in the leaves
That are already dead.
If I had a grandfather he
Would tell a story that would help
Us get through all this.
But he died, you see, so far back
And never had much of anything
To say to anybody, anyway.
He used to listen to a transistor radio for company.
So very few things help,
Rarely people. I knew a blind squirrel once
In Central Park when I wanted to die,
And he did something in the nimble way he took
The peanuts from my invisible hand with his strange fingers.
One day I will walk into the park to find him
But he will be gone. Squirrels don’t live very long.
People do—and something about that will keep things raw.
I’d rather have a blind squirrel as a lifelong friend
Who knows that winter is immanent, and we
are inured from none of it,
And will always take so gracefully what you have
And disappear into the trees,
Knowing, in his belly, you’ll come back.
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