They sit they watch, these cats - they do
at the door, ajar, and trickling in is
this evening light, which seems to idle,
mid fade. One turns his head and looks
with eyes intelligent, and wisdom filled.
I wonder how beauty and sadness are often
confused. Is it that some things are too
beautiful? Does it pull at the seams of
some cosmic wound I've tried for my life
to understand? The feelings that beauty
evoke are like sad tracings on tissue paper.
Through the door I see greens thickly
shimmer in this breeze that I can almost
hear. I imagine the greens turning red,
then brown, and falling; in their short
poetic way, falling until, at last, they
vanish under the trembling paws of animals,
men, and the hush of a longer winter.