Her back is an ecosystem, <br />algaeic and wrapped <br />beneath a canopy’s sun. <br /> <br />Arms forever up and out <br />above her head—she is <br />this tall. No height, <br /> <br />no dangers below, <br />will blanch the beast; <br />she sees no fear. <br /> <br />A fall will seldom kill her. <br />Nun ordained to pliancy, <br />she’s slowness made devotion. <br /> <br />The monkeys run <br />right by her, skitter-shows <br />their onus; harpy hawks <br /> <br />with sudden plucks <br />plunge, their hunger flown. <br />It is true she cannot walk <br /> <br />—when basic need or poor luck <br />grounds her, she’ll have to <br />pull herself along the muck <br /> <br />of forest floor. So she hangs, <br />even after life, from branches, <br />fool-like, face to sky, <br /> <br />her backward-growing <br />coat a woolish habit. <br />Even at the tops <br /> <br />of trees, she blends in. <br />She is cool, and shy seeming; <br /> <br />Her cry’s a sure ai, ai.<br /><br />C.J. Sage<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sloth-4/
