Like the Squirrel

I look out the window
noticing the squirrel
hopping, twitching, digging
oddly I long to hold it
soft and wild in my arms.
But like so many things
it is one my hands will never catch.
And should they, it would surely bite them.
The good I try to do
better left undone.
I am reminded that there are those things
that are better admired from a far
things that I am never meant to have, to hold.
They will always be,
much like the squirrel
out of my grasp.