Sometimes my feelings go underground
like a confusion of weasels,
and all I can do is wait for them
to come back up. Some pop up intermittently,
here and there, and I must resist feeling foolish
Batting them back down.
Memories surprise me, and I have to knock
them back down too like weasels.
Regrets, I have a few
they play the same game, showing up
unexpectedly. I know in my heart
my life is not a weasel, and I am not a fool
in spite of the squirrelly way I feel holding
my hammer waiting for my target.
I strike, and strike again
whenever the little heads pop out of an unknown
hole. What else can I do, as I ferret out what’s next.

Corinne Walsh lives in Skibbereen, Ireland with her 2 cats, Duncan and Jake. After 60 years of writing secret messages to the world, she is an emerging poet. Readers welcome! Her first chapbook, THE BOOK OF LU was published in March 2022. Her second chapbook, BUILT TO FLY will come out in June 2023