Here's a short remembrance, written by a Cherokee woman with a Cherokee
heart:
"Down in the edge of the woods a grapevine swings back and forth
in the dappled sunlight. Two squirrels, young ones, spend time swinging on the
vine, chasing each other up and down and crossing from tree to tree. Their
obvious joy in simply being alive is good to watch. We seldom do anything with
great joy."
It reminded me of Robert Frost. Mr. Frost didn't mention squirrels in "Birches," but he might have….
Here's an excerpt of what he did say, you'll recognize it:
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
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