image from Hope at pinterest.com
poem written for and submitted to "1431" poetry contest, Brian Strand, sponsor, December 20, 2025.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Christmas Eve’s finest sin~ a bowl left out, a dash of gin mixed with cream and nutmeg dust. Chester the squirrel placed his tiny paws around the bowl, tipped it with drunken swoon, licking the rim with reckless glee. One sip, two—then thirty-two. Why is the tree spinning around me? His cheeks grew rosy; his tail unspooled. He hiccupped and wobbled, declaring himself "King of Forestown," tried to wrestle a lawn gnome for crimes against his newfound throne. By dusk the fence post wore a Cheshire grin. The oak tree swayed like ocean waves. He misjudged a leap~ (oh gravity!)~ clung to a branch like a wind-tossed leaf, whispering who moved the sky? His tail, once crisp as autumn’s snap, dragged like a half-hearted flag. The stars, he swore, were almonds~ if only he could crack… Dawn found him curled up in last year’s nest, dreaming of nutmeg, cinnamon and dizzy flight~ while the world spun, spun, and spun.
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