It all comes down
to a choice:
safety or freedom.

The forest expands
as I walk, still a
compact heaven,
a corral for inner
stallions,
but threatening
the safety
I sold myself for.

I don't know the god
of this grumbling
mausoleum,
but it seems just
fine with two colors
and a Benedictine sky.

Another January and something
needs to happen.

Someone's well-bred garden
is acting up:
honeysuckle vines
still shimmy
and they're grinding
out the blues . . .

even in silence, some freedom
and primitive jazz.

My old cat used to
follow me on these
clean-shaven winter
evenings.

I like to think,
in his new life, he
is a living myth
in a softer kingdom.

How I miss his ferocious joy.

Cats make the right choices
and I am just a
temporary lord of
limping rivers and
mystified squirrels,

some embalmed branches
and leftover surgical air . . .

a safe and furious
visitor on my
way to forever.


© Patricia Joan Jones