The Truce

Balmy summer days find him
Tending his lawn with
The same pride and work ethic
That carried him through forty years
In the smoke of a dimly lit factory.
Age and weather have carved
A constant scowl onto his face,
Intimidating any children venturing
Too near his perfectly trimmed lawn.
The squirrels, however, show no such fear.
The furry insurgents conduct
Daring raids on his bird feeder,
Build bunkers in the backyard
To store winter provisions,
Taunting him from the treetops
With their chattering propaganda.
This cold December morning
Finds him on his front porch,
Something resembling a smile
Cracking his aged features,
Carrying a peace offering
Of walnuts and cashews
For his tiny adversaries.
It is the season of peace on Earth,
And peace shall reign in his yard,
At least until the spring thaw
When the hostilities begin anew.