To Be Called a Bear
Bears gash the forest trees
To mark the bounds
Of their own hunting grounds;
They follow the wild bees
Point by point home
For love of honeycomb;
They browse on blueberries.
Then should I stare
If I am called a bear,
And is it not the truth?
Unkept and surly with a sweet tooth
I tilt my muzzle toward the stary hub
Where Queen Callisto guards her cub,
But envy those that here
All winter breathing slow
Sleep warm under the snow,
That yawn awake when the skies clear,
And lank with longing grow
No more than one brief month a year.
