In honor of the day…

It seems every country has its bizarre nonsensical traditions, but we here in America don’t get to point and laugh, not only because that’s rude, but because we take meteorological reporting from a large rodent hauled out of a hole by some guy in a top hat.

In honor of the utter weirdness of that, here’s a take on what it would be like to be the groundhog in an anthropomorphic world. (If the poem looks familiar, it’s because I posted it here before a few years ago, and it’s also appeared in the now-defunct magazine Allasso, but I figured my newer followers may have missed it, and it’s timely. So here you go.)

 

February 1: Groundhog Goes to the FoodMart

Mrs. Fox, pushing her cart

in her best Sunday dress, string of pearls

at her red throat, reminds him

of the tenderness of spring chickens,

gives him a smile, white and sharp.

The Rabbit family crowds the cereal aisle.

As he chooses a plain cylinder of oatmeal,

Mother Rabbit says hello, steers the small talk

toward the petunias she’s planning

to brighten up the burrow,

the rows of cabbages and carrots

Father’s mapping out for the field.

The kits tug on Groundhog’s overalls, eyes bright,

whispering to him, one more snow,

one more afternoon of sledding, one more fort,

one more snowbunny with mittens for ears.

Sleepy-eyed Bear shuffles in, only nods

when anyone speaks, gets in line

with a quart of milk and a canned ham.

His bleary gaze meets Groundhog’s,

and he adds a can of coffee, economy size.

Groundhog waits in line, stares at the tabloids

while the chattering squirrel cracks gum

and rings up the shoppers ahead.

He feels their eyes on him, all watching as if

he could melt the gray slush outside with a glance,

could give them warmth and new life on a whim.

Even in this harsh fluorescent light,

he will not look at his feet.