Poems in the Night (too much coffee)

 The Cat

I am not a witch, she is not an enchanted maiden,
Yet she knows my ways, and I hers
As though a spell has been cast.
Have I done it to her, or she to me?
Or is it that I have heard her voice
A thousand times
And responded?

Wonder and Awe

Those sounds that play upon the drum of my ear
Strike the same flesh, bone and nerve
     and yet from each source a different voice,
     a different message, so distinct.
Lying in bed at night, listening to what is being said, I hear
     the water left running on the garden
And go to shut it off.


A hand outstretched in the darkness,
   the corner of the table, the back of the sofa,
         ten steps to the door, the edge of the bed.
There is a light
   But I might be blind someday
      And I must practice.

Talk (write) to me.

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