Notes About The Poem
image from Hope at pinterest.com
THE SQUIRREL AND THE BROOMSTICK
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The gray squirrel spotted a broom
leaning up by the porch~
Had quite the marvelous notion.
Not one to consider the why or the how,
he scrambled right up it, tail twitching,
chattering to himself,
"I’ll master this stick with the straws!”
He perched on the handle,
wiggled his rump,
adjusted his paws,
then flicked his tail twice—there!
A leap? No, a shuffle. A wobble?
No, a lurch!
He clung with three paws
to his unstable perch.
The broom, being broom-like,
just leaned to the right,
then sloooowly,
politely,
keeled
over.
Just gravity’s pull and
a soft, leafy thud.
The squirrel blinked once,
sniffed the rude bristles,
then shrugged
(in a squirrelish way).
He rode the broomstick,
well... sort of. Near it.
He’d touched it while falling!
That counted! (In spirit.)
He flicked his tail
with a dignified air,
stole three porch-side daisies,
and vanished.
Somewhere.
To this day,
the broom lays abandoned.
Somewhere nearby
an adventure-seeking rodent
plots riding the rake
leaning next to the
old oak tree.
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