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Poetry
by Beatrice
Nap
Time
My cat
life adds to ninety-one. Quiet at home has grown with the
years. Week ends I am less than eager for those busy interludes.
I curl
onto the soft plump pillow, cozy and warmly adrift... when
suddenly I am rudely roused with dishwasher clutter and hiss.
A relentless vacuum unleases its drone and a non-stop telephone
jangles.
Posing
practiced feline grace I remain with outer calm, tightening
my sleeplless eyes though tension builds inside - until blessed
Monday mornings when the front door closes and tranquility
descends.
Hideaway
Not a
hint of heaven's blue, its favor dimmed - though the unseen
sky remains far removed, aloof from the stirring brew...
while
precipitation's sullen face from under fiercely scowling brows,
spews an unrepenting pour squeezed from burdened clouds.
Each
sheltering burrow or hideaway instinctively sought by outdoor
life, provides the refuge waiting out beyond the rain's spent
fling.
An
Accounting
Over
years grown steadily, the fullness that our senses bring is
chanced with every likelihood exulting in the beauty found
and wrestling with the sorrow.
The free-fall
turns when crises strike recoup in time while reserves hold
- but inroads claim upon our health, a lengthening that ebbs
away our flagging source of strength.
Passing
decades rise and fall - the override that most prevails as
part of our own history, and age is less the ideal sought
than striving to attain it.
Beatrice
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