A broken tulip

.
.
.
Little chubby chipmunk scolds
me severely. He firmly holds
his position: king of the woodpile.
Even the littlest among us needs a home.

Little chubby chipmunk folds
his hands, stamps his feet, blows
his cheeks in very loud ‘tcheeps’
he shakes all over with anger and the cold.

I know,
little one,
I know what it is to be small.
How all the anger puffing your cheeks
only makes the big one laugh because you are weak
in their eyes, unable to hurt them at all.

I don’t know,
little one,
I don’t know why the Creator made some of us
so small — our only defense how fast we can hide,
how far we can run. He must have thought

the bigger ones would not laugh,
when your home is in danger
and you puff your puny tail
rat-a-tap your two back feet
in a warning that means

nothing…to them.
everything… to you.
.
.
.
This poem is for all those for whom home is not safe right now. Of everything happening right now around corona virus, thinking of women and children in worsening abuse situations breaks my heart more than anything. All I can do is pray that the God who sees and knows each of them would act to protect them.