Gathering
The mustard thrush picks at ivy —
speckled sun in the brown wood damp.
My fingers are numb
looking for narrative out here;
none of them wondering if they're doing enough
of the thing that makes them feel
connected to themselves.
The squirrel with her cheeks full of leaves
could be carrying the universe
so sure is she
of the nested Spring to come.
I scratch my skin in frustration
and fill my cheeks with words.
speckled sun in the brown wood damp.
My fingers are numb
looking for narrative out here;
none of them wondering if they're doing enough
of the thing that makes them feel
connected to themselves.
The squirrel with her cheeks full of leaves
could be carrying the universe
so sure is she
of the nested Spring to come.
I scratch my skin in frustration
and fill my cheeks with words.
C. LJ Ireton, 2026
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