[Our grandson, two-year-old Eero, observing a whirling ceiling fan with a light globe, above him in the Picton Harbour Inn Restaurent: “Flying light”—that’s my found poem for this weekend.]
We had seen it
so many places
so many times
ceiling fan
blades whirling
light globe jiggling
unenchanted
we had not
allowed ourselves
to see the
mystical
flying light
be swept away
through the
magic portal
to the stars
[See Platinum River for the background of this poem, and a photo.]
I sit on a chair
a sheet draped
around my neck
and pinned snugly
her scissors whisper
secrets and her fingers
kiss my scalp
and butterfly by me
like sunny breezes on
the summer porch
she leans near
I smell her warm scent
I feel close enough
to touch her
as she touches me
a used shoe lace
scrawled on the kitchen tiles
a scribble of lethal potential
a kitten
crouching behind
a fourest of chair legs
twelve seconds
suspicion
head lowers
hind quarters
adjust
pounce
battle of claws
and wiley tangles
multipodal monster
victo—
is that a gnat
or a dust mote
drifting by?
