The Sloth

For some it would be a crisis

to be named for one of the vices,

But I doubt it bothers the sloth

any more than it would a moth!

The leaves and twigs he likes to eat

surely are no stomach’s treat--

digesting all that mass is tough:

sometimes a week is not enough!

The sloth finds motion a trial—

sedentary is his chosen style.

He finds a tree and doesn’t wander

(there is no charm in far and yonder),

nor does he wish to be on the ground:

he almost never will come down.

Is he lonely, up near the sky  

Without a friend or kin nearby,

no wife or girl to share life’s way?

We may wonder, but he won’t say!

The Scottie

There’s no dog quite like a Scottie:

both grave and just a touch dotty.

Obedience is not their long suit:

for orders they don’t give a hoot;

and cock their heads to ask a question

if they’re not sure of our suggestion.

Thick in the trunk and short at knee,

they’re quicker than they seem to be:

and many varmints being chased

soon would regret their lack of haste.

Scotties bear their tails alert,

are nothing if not rather pert,

and though too small to do much harm,

as guards they will sound the alarm.

Some seem sad but others cheerful:

Most are brave and few are fearful,

but always can this dog beguile

the saddest friend into a smile!

The Beagle

Intended to help us find rabbits,

they will not give up their habits.

On outings they’ll walk all the day 

in hopes that bunnies come their way.

The drooping ears serve well our hound—

to gather scents from near the ground;

and once they are sure of the track—

there is no way to turn them back.

But inside, they lean to lazy—

and seem to think exercise crazy!

Beagles do not bark: instead they bay,

a stern note to signal disarray;

and like all of their doggy race,

a lack of order they must erase.

Their affection is warm and sincere,

offered to anyone who’s near,

And though canines may make you shrug,

No one can resist a beagle hug!

The Little Brown Bat

Little bats, you must bear the weight

of much distrust and misplaced hate,

and be resigned to unearned ties

with such lovelies as newts and flies,

and what’s worse are those witches brews

where you join toads in bubbling stews!

You’re a creature we want to dismiss,

whose demise is not thought remiss,

but still you play your vital part,

for catching insects is your art.

On summer nights, your fluttering flight

is grace-filled beauty and pure delight;

and for those who say you are no treat,

I cite the endless bugs you eat.  

Granted your occasional foray

into our homes may cause dismay,

but all those tales are worthless fare:

you have no interest in our hair!

After Discussing Gratitude with Maya

My granddaughter and I talked

about how to be grateful,

what we should give thanks for.

We say thank you, world where we live,

and thank you, whoever you are,

for the gifts of each day;

thank you for our dogs and cats,

for our parents, our friends,

our teachers-- and even for the weather,

though in late November

it’s not as easy as it was in May;

thank you for the love

that makes it easy to forgive

and, hopefully, to be forgiven,

and even for this coming winter;

and thank you for our lives,

for things rare and unexpected--

even if it’s going to be rather cold.

The Fox

 

I’m here to say a cardboard box

Is not a place to keep a fox;

For foxes need to wander free

wherever they would like to be.

They can thrive in many places—

from woods and farms to city spaces,

and always seems to know the score

out in the wild or near a door--

for many myths and much of art

assure us that the fox is smart--

and all our science on this guy

agrees that he is pretty sly.

A family man, he knows his kits

depend upon their father’s wits,

so duty he will never shirk—

he makes their lunch his own life’s work;

and thus, he goes on daily rounds,

defying hunters and their hounds.

After Discussing Death with Leo

As you noted, it is not fair:

the dead have no memories

(perhaps their greatest blessing),

while we who remain and remember

must deal with the void.

I think of you in earlier years

when you first saw this cold place:

the beloved cat-- or that sad little bird

lying in the yard at the edge of the trees,

and, then as now,  I am not selling reassurance,

a hollow gift you would rightly refuse.

Every puzzle has its pieces,

each one falling into its own place,

making the picture complete:

the sky entire above our heads

and the ground firm beneath our feet,

the confirmation of a whole

which lights each day’s journey;

but each loss is forever,

that place in the puzzle empty,

a face or color no longer there,

a blank we struggle to fill

until, at last, on some day,

we reach the magic of memory.