Kismet in the Cold

For many, many years, I've had a blog at the (now unfavored) LiveJournal, where I mostly kept my writing. Original poems, interviews, and book reviews, lengthy series about Shakespeare, Jane Austen, and more. It is still in use, but I am considering winding it down, quite frankly. However, I have an ongoing poetry project with five (sometimes six) beloved poetry sisters, and we write new poems each month on agreed-upon topics or using agreed-on forms.

 Kismet sleeping on my legs.

Kismet sleeping on my legs.

This month's assignment was to write a sonnet (on any topic we wanted). I chose to write about Kismet, my six-year old calico.

I watch small brown birds puffed fat against cold
peck gravel for small sustenance at best.
A finch, a wren, some dark-eyed juncoes wrest
the smallest bit of God-knows-what. I hold
the cat up to the window, where she tries
to follow hops and jumps, small bursts of flight.
We both pretend she’d catch them all, despite
us knowing that is all a flock of lies.
She’s lived inside a house since she was small,
found toddling by a highly trafficked street,
a tiny, bat-eared calico fuzzball
with pink toe-beans on all four small white feet.
    She asks to be put down, climbs in my lap,
    curls up, then dreams of birds during her nap.

 


I am unsure whether the rest of the poems will move here or not, but as this is ART & WORDS, I thought I'd see how it goes.