Sunday Poetry

Pause, Reflect

Not arborist enough to distinguish, the coral-red blossoms

blushing just back of the back fence are either crab-apple

or quince. I cannot tell, nor does it matter to the sleeping cat

resting atop the fence rail, just fronting the display. Not

a conscious pose on the cat’s part, his esthetic encompassing

other dimensions than mere sight, but effective. Sunlight

paints him warm; the breeze that rumples his fur does not

disturb his slumber. At the fence’s foot, the garden spreads

warmly, dark soil ready for seed; wind stirs unfurling leaves,

green as new grass, and the cat unfolds, stretches, and looks

out toward the weather making in the west; time to move

to a more sheltered position. As for me, I return to my duty;

time to ready myself for the bourgeoning spring’s next tasks.

Robert Ward

(For more of Robert Ward's poetry, go to Pointandcircumference)