Our fortress is comfy,
stewards of fragile
advantage (never lost!)
We’ve taken cover like ants
on a pin oak in an ice storm
with cracked acorns
and perimeter grass
A collection of twigs makes a roof
(a “tannin-bark estate for royalty”)
to cap our existence and hem us in
It stunts us like lavender
hacked low for oil, greasing the gears
and plaguing us downwind
over a sensual buffer
We wait in our chosen forest
set apart and stowed away
and when our emergence
reveals us rested,
the engine will still chug along, aloof.
The wind told me
“Never stick your head out unless
you want to ride the commotion
thru your soul.”
Is it time to uproot,
wearing feathers mixed in hay?