She is demure , with longing eyes
that watch scenes pass into relief.
Past-written and clothed in the moment
just before an outburst,
not a full-fledged flower,
but a blossom,
in paced steps-
dear to watch over
hands to hold-
fixed in secret,
Rolling on the floor, a speckled ball of yarn,
chased by cats, and batted back and forth;
’round the chair and wedged so not to budge.
Provocateur, unravel as you will-
the line of thread that travels here and yon-
a serpentine attests your elegance.
A moment’s play- your coil and path supply
diverting pleasure – here and there – unwound
around and ’round the floor you dart.
Between the wall and shelves, in spaces thin
since come to rest – and sameness- yet again
Await to wind and wrap – your future holds
another track, unfurl and ring and flaunt.
I set out to write a sestina this morning – quite a challenge for a Saturday morning- but the word scheme never quite worked out for me. I ended up with this, which has no formality to it, other than 3 line verses and some nice lines, alliteration, and hopefully some back and forth in the poem. I don’t own a cat, but I suspect watching one play with a ball of yarn might be enjoyable. I was thinking that the yarn might get bored easily if all it had to do was be batted around and unwound until it found a resting place – waiting to be rewound and put into play again.
the mystery that drives and weaves
and captures all she feels and grieves-
inward lies her heart perfecting
both her days and nights, dissecting
with a tiny mirrored hand-
her sphere, it grows -afflicts the strand
which twines and knots and preys alone
and none will notice, deftly sewn
just like auroras, bold and lithe
she wanders – spreads – abates in sight.
all I see in a memory
passing a hallway and a staircase.
to a glass door.
yet in the moments after
the vision of her dress-
her hair, streaming in cinnamon
and obeying the pace,
the sounds of her walk
her lips moving to an unassisted conversation
these details attend and amass
but always with emerald first
as I exit.
Knowing the value of such blooms,
she recorded the moment of their heyday.
Just when the cannas overflowed
and the pear trees erupted-
the flushed colors dotted her mind
so that she could memorize each cast and tone
and whisk them onto winter’s canvas
smears of rust and scarlet
wan and chill.
Autumn is passing its apex now. It always brings with it a sense of nostalgia, a sense of loss, an appreciation of beauty…These are some quick thoughts about the season brought on by viewing some recent photographs taken by a blogging friend. Thanks for visiting.