Saturday, August 27, 2016

paper chains













They sing in the autumn breeze,
red-yellow-blue-green
circles of glass and childhood
memory, like
the chains we made with paper and glue,
rings of color building
and building
until the magic of them
could take you anywhere,
grant any wish,
even the ones where
your parents would stop fighting
and the cat wasn't dead
anymore
and this Christmas would be
happy. And
though you secretly know
the truth,
when you walk in the garden
in the early morning
and the light makes them come alive
again,
the magic still
shines

Saturday, August 13, 2016

in which the cat rescues us.




With a few intriguing manners
and a tendency to purr,
the cat has managed 
to rule us all.

It was her master plan, no doubt,
when we rescued her—
a soft and yielding bundle
of tabby stripes and gangly legs
and a voice any Siamese would envy.
(We found that out later.)

Last night
as I walked back to the house
from taking the trash out to the curb,
I saw the cat silhouetted in the lighted window—
looking like a picture book where
all the homes are filled 
with light and warmth 
and love.

And I thought, the cat did that.
The little tabby cat who used to be a stranger,
made our house 
a home.