Everything normal, old feather
and the child's rocks collected
on the porch, I'll drive the cat
to his death later
but for now I'm writing a poem.
Hearing winter prayers on the radio
instead of caressing you, leaving you
half-asleep sunning on the armrest, I'm
Trying to keep everything normal
until we leave the house together
for the last time for you to
play in the grass like the other cat
would never permit.
Why is the sun always shining
when I'm in the yard overcome
with the power of life and death?
Fragile creature that loved me so
Come, let me take you through the garden
I kept you from all your life. A scarecrow
is waiting with a needle and this mother has
but arms to warm your way.