With no fear of breaking his body
The little squirrel floats free
From that tree to this tree
To all the trees I am allowed to see.

Brave fellow.
With boundless joy
It seems he plays my fool
To cheer a dangerous mood.

I remember I killed his kin.
For sport they died.
Hundreds I suppose.
And suppose it must have been a sin.

Of which retribution should flow
From him to crippled me
For bitterness I would not be
Surprise his playfulness hides.

I stagger from bed to chair.
He runs the trees as if for glee.
I crawl, when times are bad,
Just to see him running free.

And if I could I would tell him
I know his ancestors’ pain.
I would tell him I am sorry;
I served no purpose for the pain.

Now I watch him
As if to pray,
As my body goes
My mind will stay.

© 2016