Brushing my old lady cat
is a sensual thing,
she turns on her right side
switches to her left, electric
purring creeps up my arm,
tail tip whip-cracking
and I gather up fur detritus
into a ball on the oak floor,
Open the back-porch door,
cold fresh air knifing in
from the soaked timbers,
wind from the southeast
fogging the storm door,
and behind the porch rail
a carnival of chattery dyed birds
Ride the bare sticks of forsythia:
Carolina wrens and cardinals
saturated in ice droplets,
flailing spray from their wings,
and I toss the woven cat fur
on the dirt-streaked porch table,
and go back inside, towel off
and watch through the storm glass
As a song sparrow lands,
gathers the skein of fur in its beak
and white-streaked cheeks,
and wing-rises to the rafters,
stuffing the treasure into a crack
puffing its body ball-shaped
head upraised, belly vibrating,
and it sings madly, reedily,
a hymn to treasure:
St. Louis Post Dispatch:
Man bites dog/Feline donates to avian cause
If I confess to the daydreaming cat
I am a cold heart, a traitor,
if I confess to the bird
I am a vile feline enabler,
so, I confess to the iced naked trees
stripped of finery, all their vanity,
old ladies, winter-scoured of makeup,
somnolent, and not much caring
about irony
