Curious As a Poet

I am a cat to most things. With nimble thoughts falling through white padding paws I skirt about My place on earth, as though it’s a dream, a painted scene except for me. I am too slick to stick to a boundless place like this, reality. Though the mundane springs with novelty and perks my ears so easily life’s unfair and can’t think to care of a woman fraught with dreams or prayer. I could love the sand and salty sea which gathers soft around my feet thinking hard on words to please the oceans’ rolling breeze. But the water’s hands are cold and quick To claim a life or render sick The mouths that sing its praise Such is the laughter of reality When it knows not a bond to me And moves without a thought to see My genuine concern I’m here alive with moments to keep my eyes transfixed to this curious circumstance. My pillaring feline Limbs are still and prepared, Ready for a beginning but Aware of an end. What preoccupies me this day? Maybe the green traces of frayed blades, my childhood smell, my love, that earthy carpet that crunched under my feet like water chestnuts. It clung to me like a lover On those lingering summer afternoons and I was happy for that But even if now I toss the thought like a finite game and I roll it about my tongue like cold coffee, My attention to that day is stifled by the movement of now and I remain a cat wondering how, I could be what I am, an ageless spirit ready to spring but happy to watch alone