i think that i shall never see
a poem lovely as a tree
with possums clinging to each limb
like tiny, pink-tailed cherubim.
a possum thinks of bears all day,
and lifts her gaze as though to pray;
a possum may in summer scare
a nest of robins from her lair;
and winter's snow she does disdain,
although she will acquaint with rain.
poems are made by fools like us'em,
but only love can make a possum.
-author unknown