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.
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