A TALE OF A TRYST
Espy on her moving foglike through snowpacked flowerbeds,
and quietly draw the blinds lest you startle the feral cat
before she turns and gets to the edge of the cabin porch blurred
into the landscape by fine snow---still with graceful gait,
still oblivious of frantic twitter from the quivering branches,
still the master of her needs.
Watch her walk sure-footed in her own footsteps through
benighted garden snow, clear prints in each old crater,
meandering steps on steps like old markers or old habits.
This is the way of the free, the wizened, and the wise:
track back to where the wild spirit finds the true wild heart
wandering where it once found warmth and caress when
none could be hunted.
Espy on her moving to the edge of the porch,
close enough to feel the fire, close enough
to want to jump on a lap and fearlessly, gently snuggle
where love burned bright and rages still. Then take her in.
--- ALBERT B. CASUGA
Mississauga, January 18, 2011
Indeed, two "playing" poets get their thought molecules colliding in cyberspace. It is serendipitous!
The Bonta line:
Fine snow blurs the edges of the porch. The feral cat has walked in her own footsteps through the garden, a clear print in each old crater. ---Jan. 18, 2011 Morning Porch, Dave Bonta (http://www.morningporch.com/)