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.