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Three
Poems
by
Marise
Morse
The
Kitten
Have
you seen
this
kitten
how
it bobs its head?
Tireless
a sprig of tongue
flicks
in flicks out
attempts
to dart away
purring,
motor running
tiny
teeth
work
hard, whiskers
long
light flecks of nylon twine, tickle
if
my hands get in the way.
Little
padded paws stretch
brutal
claws span out, retract
without
much harm.
Bands
of silken skeins unreel
collide
with legs
of
stiff backed chairs
loosened
strands, fraying threads
remain
of playful afternoons.
Now
you’re gone
I
can’t remember
when
was it we kissed last?
it
was a time
before
I turned my head
from
yours
as
you leaned in through the open door.
I
traveled north alone
that
summer
greeted
by a farmer
kindly
eyes, a gentle face
spoke
he was at home.
In
the evening
by
the lake
a
sudden cloudburst
pushed
torrential rains, down
the
farmer’s wife summoned me
to
say you called
soaked,
I smiled
told
her how you worried so
she
had no reply.
Next
summer I fled back
expecting
more of feeling, found
the
wife alone
the
farmer gone
in
search of one last sail
the
lake
before
the winter’s drawing in
a
boating accident in freezing waters
one
clear November afternoon.
When
was it you and I we kissed last?
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The
Roses
Goodbye
she
said
and
shook hands timidly
wanting
rather
to
be welcoming.
Our
meeting, brief
perhaps
as long
as
knowing grandfather
standing
at his open door
waving,
watching our departure
till
the last speck of moment
a
picture
out
of its frame.
His
pursed lips
whistled
without sound.
Snow
fell and rose
to
just beneath
the
window sill.
Our
tiny legs
were
buried
with
each
giant
step.
Or
did
I take her hand in mine?
Is
the parting in my mind now
as
it was, or
is
there another likeness
standing
in
between?
I
search
the
tiny leaves
next
to my chair
a
soft voice floats
behind
my ear, those leaves give
purple
flowers. I turn
to
see
her
glance has touched
my
touch.
The
roses froze last winter
and
so
did
not do well this summer
and
see, look lost now
their
time is passed.
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Hush
I
pass where young Sequoia trees
stand
guard
the
open silence hums
something
left of you
still
walks.
Slipping
up the hill
an
old stone fortress bites
the
cold
harbor
gapes
where
frigid waters heave and lurch
her
mossy flanks
a
gripping ache.
Your
silence baffles
beyond
repair, I fear
days
co-mingle
slipping,
vast
nights
molasses, slow
my
eyes gaze
indigo
coals, the grate
and
dream of fire.
In
early days
exploding
passion
sent
us clear across the ocean
deep,
my palm in yours
horizon
winces piercing stars.
Wildness
in the clouds burst
time,
a delicate ampule
poised,
I hear
a
raindrop fall
bell
clear
a
wayward phantom blows
cold
cold breath
unbound
sorrow
its
shiver strolls along my spine.
Still
moments
flutter.
Snows
drift
into pockets. Silent.
I
long to see the beach from here.
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