Jerry Windhorn
Pennsylvanian sun,
It’s been absolute eons
Since I’ve gotten taste of sweet roots
or dug for grains from the bottom up.
You keep keeping me out by
Choosing flora over fauna.
And my needs get left unmet when you
Always give the spring its reign.
Well, here I am, a lowly scavenger
Of nature’s feathers and furs.
Stuck with loud green earth
As it pervades my eyes.
It would seem I’m simply
a brown speck on a field.
I suppose to you,
I am such a thing.
I keep my claws close to my burrow’s door
Hoping you’ll make an appearance
I’d kill to see you through my window
Whipping around your blinding rays
Conquering the horizon
Making mist out of those clouds
and a housemate out of me.
The matter is, I have matters to attend to.
My place isn’t spotless. In fact,
All of my plants are dead.
And it’s because…they need you.
I need you, too.
For your consideration:
Please take a second of February
To stop by
Say “Hi”.
Your marmot admirer,
Punxsutawney Phil
Stylus 