I stumbled on a tree root.
All my words fell out of my mouth.
All of them. The seldom used ones too.
Blanket, forget-me-not,
moon and trademark
stuck to my left arm.
They sunk below my skin
to become tattoos
in search of colors other than black.
Working late into the evening,
I picked up most of my vocabulary,
fearing a frost would wither my words.
Squirrels scurried over to the spill
and took words away
to bury them for a winter cache.
I cannot name
a single nut type anymore.
Or what it is that encases its edible kernel.
The tree roots soaked up many words.
The tree now pleads with me
when I trim its branches.
While relaxing in its shade,
the tree tells me how it feels
about squirrels.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
Umflop 