I remember the smell of my grandmother’s kitchen
Remember the scent of my grandfather’s beard
I remember the perfume, so stark and bewitching
Of garlic and savory steaks being seared
I remember the tea brewed from something called tilia…

Acorns. Scorned by humans
Pinecones, too
Wasteful, wasteful
With things that are tasteful
Prized by squirrelkind

I climb up the mountain, in ritual garb
Once white, now full dusty and rent
My legs have been torn by the plentiful barbs
That grow on this path of ascent
I yearn for the summit, I long for the peak

I mustn’t eat it – this I know
Because my Master told me so
“This here is Bubbles. He’s my fish”
“He is a friend – not Kitty’s dish”
So I resolved to undertake a mission…