THE IRONY OF THE FULL HAND

​The Squirrel, that twitchy, miniature god of thrift,
Declares the season’s truth: Survival is the theft.
With eyes like frantic beads, he scurries, half-deranged,
His whole philosophy of living pre-arranged.
He stuffs the earth with futures, one by one,
A miserable mortgage on the winter sun.
He is the busy metaphor of fear,
Who thinks that happiness can be stored up here.
​Meanwhile, the Apple on the bough just sighs,
And rolls its heavy, philosophical red eyes.
It knows the score: its purpose is complete.
It has grown plump on glory, sun, and sweet,
And now, it only longs to cease the strain.
The branch, a worn-out parent, whispers, "Rain
Will come, my dear, and make a sodden mess,
But first, embrace the elegant release."
​The irony hangs thicker than the autumn mist:
The Squirrel, who hoards the kingdom of the log,
Ensures his wealth is hidden, lost, and deep,
A fortune he must labor hard to keep,
While the Apple, scorned as transient and soft,
Achieves its final, perfect goal aloft.
​It drops—not empty, no—but wholly done.
It finds its freedom underneath the sun,
Leaving the hoarder to his nervous quest,
And granting soil the goodness of its best.
The final harvest isn't what you hold,
But what you are magnificent enough to let go.