One daffodil bulb,
its papery outer layer askew,
lies on my front porch.

It’s on the brick outcropping
where an ornate brick planter
should hold brilliant, spiky mums.

Instead, there’s just this lonely bulb,
dug up by a squirrel
intrigued by the earth I’d disturbed
by my planting.

But squirrels don’t eat daffodils,
so one irate squirrel
protested my poor bulb choice
by displaying one
where I’d be sure to see it.

Such a squirrelly choice.

What do you think of my poem? With all of my poems, I’m open to your suggestions on how to improve them.