The Gargoyle in My Garden
He hunches under his branchy bush, hugging
bare haunches, squatting in his stone-cold skin,
hiding from flurries of leaves, from bushels of snow,
from any hope of a kiss. I sometimes wonder what moved me
to carry him home, to set him outside my window
where he watches day and night. Keener
than word, deeper than thought, he summons the spirit
of every season through which we’ve ever huddled—
for somewhere between those doubled-up knees
and elfish ears he shelters secrets—the hiding
places of vineys? The magical habits of sprites?
But his silence and staring never cause harm,
only bad guesses in those who stare back.
Perhaps that’s why he hugs his knees, to guard
his heart—the only part
Lynn Schuessler is a longtime member of SCBWI. Her love of nature has always inspired her poetry, but lately it’s her new grandson that shows her the world through his almost one-year-old eyes.