I often envy squirrels.
Not so much for their acorns
Or their rounded winter bellies
Or the claws that make them Velcro to the trees
Or their lofty, branchy life.
It is the way they live it.
The joy from sustenance that falls before them
The knowing what they hold within them is enough
The unafraid closeness
And above all, the willingness, the trusting
At the the tip of every tree branch
To let go
And find another.
On my worst days
I am just a root
Pushing further into the darkness
For the comfort of firmer purchase
On my better days
I am vine
Absentminded in my search for light
To a world that I am terrified to lose
While just the edges of my eyes
Suggest other worlds
“I hope you don’t put down roots up there”
Says my grandmother
In her wilting living room.
My mom and uncle laugh.
“She isn’t a roots person.” They say.
“Let her fly.”
aches my soul.
If only on my best days
And at the tips of branches
I can be a squirrel.