Your hair is the color
of a storm blowing in-
All the hues of gray,
blue to pearl, satin-
streaked gold where sun’s
memory lingers, and surprised puffs, white clouds that look
like gloves you wore
to keep paint off your paws.
But you rubbed your eye, your chin, your flared ear
and smeared honey over yourself.
You fit into my shirt, between my breasts like my second heart,
a promise of storm’s beauty
and your grass-green eyes’ gaze
into mine; two green-eyed creatures curled, warm, purring
as we wait
this December dawn,
for the light.
It is the time of year
When dusk coalesces almost before sunrise
pooling around us like smoke.
When dew turns to frost
and naked branches shaken
free of clothing ink Sky.
Cats jostle each other for the strip
of sunlight that paints a 6 inch swath of floor
by the front door.
Heat inebriates them.
Gabby drapes a chair, Cato on his back, feet in the air
Gives belly to Sun from the door mat.
Jumbled racketing dogs can’t dislodge
such heated torpor.
We struggle with need for light,
for heat this waning year.
Close the door too soon. 1:06.
Sun scatters over the woods and drifts
down the horizon, empty as a pile of leaves.
Associate Editor Clare Songbirds Publishing House, Auburn NY
2018 Independent Book Award winner (poetry)
2013, 2018 CNY Book Award nominee
2016, 2018 Pushcart nominee
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