Saturday, January 19, 2019

The Same Pure Sound (Day 731)

Hesitant morning 

leaned and stretched 

into the shape of an afternoon 

the color of unwashed glass, 

and found me, dreaming, 

pen in hand.

Two bright birdcalls 

   streamed from the woods 

beyond a rumpled counterpane 

   of grass and snow spread out 

below the window 

where I lingered.

As bircalls will, 

they drew a glance, 

green-eyed, from the sill, 

where the ginger cat 

had arranged himself 

like an eclair 

on a bistro plate

We both glanced toward 

   the denuded trees, reacting 

to the same pure sound—

To me, spring whispered: 

   Just a while.

The cat licked his chops, 

   and appeared to smile.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

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