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Scratchy, scratchy, what's that sound,
Atop my home space, high and round?
Could there be one self-served mouse,
Schemed to steal my sweet, dry house?

No, those sounds don't seem that soft,
For some such small rodent, there aloft.
Could be, large birds of prey thus wait,
To bring me sure, their sweet, sad fate.

Or maybe, through some so-bright sky,
Dark clouds have come to weep and cry,
Thus pattered, loud, my walls and roof,
To make this day quite rummage-proof.

Or maybe, perhaps - oh, please let it be -
One bright red squirrel like me, but she?
I'll listen and wait, and quite quietly hide,
As my red squirrel heart beats fast inside.

For all I can see through the door in my keg,
Is paper and a puppy, and a little boy's leg,
But a home is home, and I'll hold mine tight,
Praying for a she-squirrel, wrong ... or write!





Written and submitted on October 18, 2019
For the "Realism Art" Poetry Contest
Eve Roper, Sponsor.

( I chose Norman Rockwell painting/illustration number two. "Write" in the last line is mis-spelled intentionally, as reference to the boy's activities )

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