On chilly autumn evenings I build a bonfire
and think of the woodchuck, a waddling rodent
who can no longer fit in any of the tunnels
he's built, their labyrinth a sorrow
to his forlorn highness who has one eye,
even it nearly buried in old hair.
What does place mean to him?
A chunk of land thrown out
with the rest. A bigger chunk
on which he sits and thinks.
How inaccurate of me, but moths
are too great a subject for one lifetime.
Winter passes, a powdery flounce.
The stars oscillate in their panic.
On brisk spring nights
I can hear the frogs singing in their disbelief.
What has happened to the woodchuck?
Summer goes about her work evenly, and soon
the cold will force a shaft from the moon
to the bonfire, an enormous eyebeam
from which, my friends,
we need to hide.