Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                            The Kittens Come on Little Fog Feet

                                 As Carl Sandburg did not say

At dawn: coffee and the Wordle and thoughts
The moon’s still full, but one last star winks out
The dew-bathed oaks drip onto a tricky word
Fog drifts in silence among the tricky light

A little paw stirs soft autumn’s molding leaves
And then two eyes appear, and a greeting tail
The forming image of the cat completes itself
And then another – two abandoned cats

These tiny orphans approach – and love begins
To them I pledge
They will never be hungry or lonely again

To your skin,
I write a thousand sonnets;
She recalls the rain.

To your smell,
I sigh a hundred ancient songs;
She sticks to me like toffee.

And oh,
To your eyes ...
To drown in silt stardust,
To smother in her hues.

To your hands,
I bow in thorns and roses;
She's grasped flesh and bone.

To your lips,
I grow ten dozen lilacs;
She carries the taste of your breath.

And oh,
To your voice ...
To asphyxiate in words,
To choke in her cadence.

And just as your veins will be empty of blood seven decades from now,
The tender love is fleeting.

But the rain still falls,
And the bones remain.

I look to the women who smell of gardenia,
whose lips have been kissed by roses.
How they sway so gracefully,
giving life to everything they touch.

One cannot help but to be enamored by their beauty.
Each word from their mouth feels like honey to the ears.
So gentle is their touch, a caress that draws you near.

But every time I touch a flower, it soon withers and dies.
I try and emanate their loving touch, but claw marks are left, and everything around me turns to dust.
I pray to the moon, hoping she might teach me these secrets of the feminine,
yet I seem to lack this untold beauty that they hold.
I am wild and rash, too loud and brash.  
Banshees and Wolves are the feminine in me,
but yet I long for the beauty that is gentle and clean.