by Rabbi Katy Z. Allen
Woodchuck—
you who make your home in my yard,
I see you wandering,
and eating,
always eating—
eating the grass (which is fine),
or the flowers I so carefully planted,
or the vegetable plants I’d thought would be safe—
this year you seem to especially enjoy zucchini,
having devoured their leaves not just once,
or twice,
or thrice,
but already four times,
and it’s only July.
I remember in the past when I hated you—
or perhaps it was your grandmother,
or great-grandmother,
or ...
