Squirrel

The mostly shuttered hospital has become a hulk of bricks 

Where children once were born and grandparents passed.

The nurses and doctors have taken the healing arts

Out of this once consecrated space.

 

Agonal breaths of a lung that enlivened this city

Become gasps for a stale air that has receded,

Calling all to a different pile of bricks for the next half generation,

Distributing ineffable mysteries of catharsis.

 

And spying upon the old grounds a new creation springs forth -

A squirrel has taken careful carefree time to bless this tiny maple.

In the crook, in the elbow of a diminutive leafless arbor,

He scratches his ears and watches the rushed and chilly scattering.

 

Barely noticed, he notices each ailing clothed creature.

Does the squirrel judge, does the squirrel spurn, does the squirrel dismiss?

Such destruction of the bonds of creation are impossible

To this perfect beast, enjoying the thistled garden.

 

Caring for his fur, he wipes away the dirt gathered from his journey.

At times on all fours, or else princely only twos, he rests.

He rests knowing that his wooden mast is safety.

And he cleans his ears so that he shall hear God on the breeze.

 

Down from the maple and once more processing upon the earth below,

He again regards us who are commemorating and willing

This manmade hospital to be as glorious as the squirrel in the tree.

And with first created peace, the squirrel heals those who hear and see.