clings to the trunk with a zillion other flubbers
not ready to go on, not ready to ease up the flex-
ing motion that had always served so well,
still thinking ahead to moisture, to sun, to the tilt of the planet,
not thinking deeply, as that distracts from the flubflub
flub of the groove of airspace allowed by neighbors
not missing the sweetness of past field flowers
or the joy of contrast in the wood, or by the sand,
just steady on the bark, under the branch pointing South
giving lift to the next tigered patch of citizens,
giving all that can be spared,
with just a little marmalade pot for tomorrow
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