On Cat's Feet
Thirty miles to the west, sleet and snow falls, but in that
thirty sleeps the bay, temperer of the January storms.
While snow and ice chill the west, a blanket of fog is pulled
up to our chins. Here by the ocean, all is softened.
Instead of the sound of waves growling across the miles, their
sound today purrs at my feet.
Trees that have lost their leafy softness have found it again
in the soft belly fur of the mist.
The air that was cold cut from crystal is now as soft as the step
of a cat’s paw on moss.
Fog.
(2009)
