If Only...
for Nutkin 
 
I saw your furry form swing from the jaws
Of Death – a feline reaper, swift and grim,
Red of ripping teeth and dripping claws,
Stood giddy in his spill-of-crimson vim.
I pried you from his fierce and piercing grip.
I combed through brindled softness for a sign – 
A tufty tremor from your brush – a whip 
Of russet sass to say that all was fine.
Instead, your squirrel zing slid limp and still
To loll upon the grass as high noon lit
Your spark-less eyes. And yet, no cat could kill  
The essence of your acorn-stashing grit – 
It gnaws my heart and nibbles on each nerve.
If only I could give you back your verve.

Susan Jarvis Bryant

Susan previously wrote about Nutkin in Snakeskin 313 last December. Recently, however, he fell victim to a cat.

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Susan Jarvis Bryant would be pleased to hear them