every night between 10 and 11
a cat appears on our deck.
a totally, no-hair-excluded black cat.
a cat that is the same size
the same color
has the same eyes
as our indoor cat, godfree.
our indoor black cat
is not amused
and our dog snaps effortlessly
and loudly
into her role as protector.
(that’s how i know the outdoor cat has arrived.)
i take food out,
and each night the outdoor cat
gets a little teensy bit closer.
but the indoor cat
remains unamused
and vocal with his
displeasure.
they sit
with only a window between them,
one cat feasting
one cat fussing,
the outdoor cat fearful
the indoor cat fierceful,
and i know – i just know -
there’s a metaphor in progress.
we’re snowed in, living on a diet of popcorn and oreos. oops – scratch that. husband just finished the last oreo. looks like it might be another 2 days before we can get out of the driveway, or so says my husband who looks forward to being snowed in, but is quite susceptible to early-onset cabin fever.
i am seldom without my computer
and never without a pen, paper,
and all the bits of cloth and thread
i can get in a quart-size zip-loc bag.
for a change of pace,
i picked up thread and cloth.
the in and out,
the over and under
creates a soothing rhythm,
a salve for my soul.
it grounds me in my matriarchal lineage,
it is the calamine lotion to my inarticulate itch.
here on planet jeanne,
the beginning of a cloth piece
strangely resembles
the beginning of a word piece.
first: the itch
followed closely by: the yearning,
an unnamed longing.
then comes the pondering and circling;
then, finally
finally: the starting.
beginning with only the vaguest notion of what i am trying to create,
the barest whisper of what i am going to say.
