A door crack of silver
on the horizon, dawn slides
under this hour haunting
the cat poised high
on a window sill, the housewife
dusting oil lamps.
Tea roses have opened,
fully bloomed to the floral
madness of van Gogh.
Some petals drop on the rug,
thumbprints of fragrance
left before the storm.
Both feline and female
confront the waiting.
A stoic perch
casts her-r-r shadow
into the mouth of the sea, one
of nine lives she can spare. Small
sacrafice to the elements.
A hypnotic rub
of handcloth polishing
pewter and glass summons
her bridal vow to prevail,
shatterproof despite
the breakable tints
of more light, lowering sky, lady
fearing the confinement. Its lack of time.
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