First an opossum crawls into our bed.
He’s tame, you cry.
Those are just love-bites.
Then it’s a long-haired white cat,
purring and snuggling.
Get her out of here, you groan.
I wake to a heavy snowfall,
the old dog statue in the yard
just a bump under the blanket.
Right after drafting this poem, I found out that Rachel’s (short-haired) white cat in London was killed last night. RIP Mario.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- January noon
- Primary sources
- Nuthatch
- Haustorial
- Walking the line
- Gospel
- Wildstyle
- Close to home
- Lay of the land
- Primary school
- Subnivean
- Secondary school
- Rabid
- Snow plow
- Breaking through
- Miner
- Bark Ode
- Snowfall
- Pastoral
- Sledding
- Rabbit
- Deep snow
- Head cold
- Snow follies
- Thaw
- Reanimation
- Old snow
- Clearing
- Burning the tissues
- Filmstrip
- How to tell the woodpeckers
- Opening
- Winterkill
- Winter sky, age 5
- March
- Downsizing
- Winter gardener
- Valentine’s Day dreams
- Vessels
- Grand jeté
- Threnody
- Evergreens
- Slush
- Out
- Snowmelt
- Emergence
- In place
- Cold Front
- The death of winter
- Salt
- Harbingers
- Wintergreen
- Evolution
- Camouflage
- Spruce grove
- Waiting to launch
- Tintype
- Terminology
- In good light
- Reach
- Old field
- Rain date
- Onion snow
- Rite of spring
- Searchers
- Migrants
- Camberwell Beauty
- Lotic
- Empty
- Walking onions
- Trailing arbutus
- Makeshift
- Risen
- Remnant
- Sleight-of-hand
Mario? Oh no, that’s awful!
Thank you Dave. I’m more upset than I imagined would be possible in the circumstances. Poor Mario. He died, as he lived, a back-garden fighter. And thank you Jean. You too have (literally!) felt his embrace.