Autumn House Press

In the Garden

Mill Cottages, Donnington, England

A squirrel fidgets at the tip of a swaying branch
and I wonder if he clings without knowing he clings.

Sometimes I remember my first time
and wonder if that girl I was held any regrets,

I think about the boy I believed I would cling to forever,
whatever I understood forever to mean,

no more reliable than the wind that is blind to us
and invisible.

Of course we were both young and knew
only how much we didn’t know,

both of us giddy with wanting.
The squirrel leaps. The branch holds.

That’s where he is now worrying another pine cone.
I’ve seen this before. And him. Or one just like him.

Later there were other men
and the hopes of a young woman,

a little older now, a little more equipped,
steadying herself and more sure of her place

in her own life, not counting on
even the sturdiest looking

branch to hold her.

copyright 2006 by Andrea Hollander Budy