There he sits
at the edge of the bookshelf
all these years, alone,
a hand-carved wooden cat
waiting for someone to read to him,
guarding all those unopened books
with so many stories to tell
He’s waiting for someone
to admire the gilded spines and covers.
He’s waiting with hands clasped
waiting patiently
for the story to begin.
But the story is waiting to be born
so it can travel the world.
4/17
ODE TO A MIRROR
Ode to an tarnished Victorian mirror
chipped and beveled,
radiating prisms of sunlight
Your silver slip, peeling with age
fogged by a sea of memory.
Ornate pewter roses covered your back.
Once you slept on her oak bureau, dazzled
amidst a sea of perfume bottles and doilies
in an upstairs bedroom, perhaps facing south,
where dust motes danced on lace curtains.
Whole lives, trapped behind the mirror.
I found you sleeping alone
in the old sea captain’s house
by the shore .
4/17
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