Tristan Robert Lange
Springtime\'s Maw
Spring rain continues.
The warm, moist grass ruffling
Under Wilma’s weight.
The groundhog lifts high,
Sniffing in the vernal air.
Her appetite calls.
Wilma moves forward;
The groundhog has purpose.
Eating while moving.
Wilma lifts once more—
Smells something not right out there.
She runs to the woods.
She has now found the smell’s source.
Leaves shake as she comes back out.
Wilma has Wesley in her maw,
The baby woodchuck’s limp head
Hanging down off of his mom’s jaw.
The corpse drops, its body is raw.
Wilma pokes—nudges— soft as bread,
Wesley won’t move for head or paw.
He will not rouse for paw or claw.
Wesley was snapped—dropped there—left dead.
Not considered a crime by law.
The baby pup had no real flaw—
Only his childish youth to shed—
To be chewed up and spit like ’slaw.
Yet he lay there, chewed up and raw—
Blood flowing out of Wesley’s head—
The horror of his death by jaw.
Wilma picks up son like a straw,
Bringing him home to grieve and dread.
Hanging down off of his mom’s jaw.
Each side bending like a see-saw.
© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.