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Month 2:19

The squirrel who’s always hurry-scurrying

across my porch,  snatching pieces

of the largest pumpkin, gnashing its flesh,  

stops, today, for just one moment

to stand tall upon his vegetable, nose high,

front paws laid one over the other

on the woody stem’s crook.  Arisen,

a preacher at his golden pulpit.



by Therese L. Broderick

About ThereseLBroderick

Independent community poet living in Albany, New York USA.

One response »

  1. This paints an appealing picture, Therese!


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