No bosom would she cling for fate

Something more lurid lies in wait

He saved her from herself, poor child

And reeled  her in from woods and wild

He pulled  the grasses from her hair

And washed her clean with soap and care

And still, the feral smell persists

Though dressed in finery she sits

He’s brought a cub into the glade

And of the mad, a woman made

Mistake to keep a lucid beast

On the man she’ll surely feast

We are the circle of the chairs

Where we’ve sat for thirty years

So our words travel the round

Voices in the space of sound

“Whatever you do, don’t look down”

The meek one said to the brave

“This tree is so high and we so small

If we fall there will be nothing to save”

 

“But meek little one, you aren’t the boy

Who fell while climbing to see

You are a jay, gifted with flight

Your world is hardly this tree.”

This Just In

Mac assassinated by evil-doers known only as two cats and a bunny.

Nestle close to me

Let’s forget out there

I’ll mend what’s tattered

You’ll clothe what’s bare

I’ll tend the garden

Of seeds you’ve sown

And bake some goodness

From what we’ve grown

The dusk will fade

While richness springs

From hearts so tender

Love’s season sings