Under a waning moon
within the span of twelve hours
he is lost to me
pressed and folded somewhere in this clear night
six days until the first of Spring
too cold to wander these rolling cracked sidewalks
in this hundred-acre-wood
of pines
and
lindens
waiting
waiting
no wind rattling their barked attention
no rabbit nest to pirate
as tender toys
(he would plop them into the bathtub) (super)
no warming earth to cradle his slumber
no gardens lush with secret hiding places
too brown
too cold
too winter
too void
too bare
of green growing things
I walk the sidewalks before the sun comes
worry bundled in layers of old wool sweaters
whisper-shouting his name against this quiet darkness
walking
walking
shuffled steps
walking
the tan neat bungalow to the east
the white stucco two-story on the corner
turning back west to the victorian corner house trimmed in sullen amber
folks quietly waking--rising in these hours
beyond the tan
beyond the white and sullen
even the stars are stilled
so quiet out--no birds yet trilling their song
no bluejays, cardinals or Carolina wrens
silent & soft this morning
walking closer to the houses
pressing my unease
into
slender bare dogwood
ivy darkest green
maple
and pokey barberry sharp
listening for rustling and an answer not coming
I found him beside the brick steps
upon the daffodil blades
at 11:11
somnolent--sprawled
last year's colorless mulch mandala'd around him
as if merely asleep beneath a tempered Sun
his gray coat lush--perfect in its felineness
begging to be stroked
held
gathering him in arms suddenly sure of function
his form unyielding
his stillness a forlorn cradle
Perseus never graceful
yet now
an exquisite grace
I carry him a few steps
walking in circles on the front lawn
grass pale-yellow-green beneath every step
this dance of despair and grief
rising
rising
crashing
rising
nobody notices
no one is home in this neighborhood now
but I want someone to be home
to acknowledge this passing
this infinite impossible hole cut across the fabric of this March morning
suddenly forsaken
