Paw Play
sometimes staring at a wordless emptiness of white
hesitant fingers hover over keys like a fox ears over snow
It's there reflecting in time's vibration smelling of salt and tar
Lines twisted taut by steady wind firmly anchored at full sail
Lights flash erratically through shouldering smoldering clouds
Then thrusting forward on the turn of running tide
Anchor lines severed as one by two well swung axes
Left to float loose like yacht club moorings
As the ship heels and dances over slower whitecaps
Free as a hunting hawk and just as deadly
Sometimes the rawness of aggressive creativity has fingers tip on wrong keys
twisting wording and thought lines in frantic search for continuity.
Sometimes she wallows on following seas bilges sloshing in frustration
as the helm sluggishly stubbornly refuses to obey
Other times the winds die and fog consumes all thoughts in clammy clutch of cold deadness
Where in hell is that damned coffee?
Copyright © Donald Meikle | Year Posted 2008
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