One, one and one equals three
if you think mathematically.
But sums done in the heart
have a subtler art –
Hazel plus Mabel plus me.
______________________________
Hazel and Mabel are the cats I live with, who have just turned 12 and 7 years old respectively. This is their annual birthday poem.
______________________________
No blanket for me:
big cat, oven-hot, pressed to
my heart – all I need.
_________________
was real sweet, she didn’t mean
to make a mess,
but when she saw
the earth, she couldn’t stop her paw
from digging down and shovelling up
mountains of the rich, wet stuff
until the plant sagged toward the ground
and silt and soil piled all around.
Then, with her tail puffed up for joy,
Mabel grabbed her favourite toy
and threw herself, while Mommy slept,
entranced
into the dirt dance.
~
In the morning, before dawn,
still dark, not a lightbulb on,
stumbling awake, Mom promptly trod
directly through those piles of sod.
She tracked them through the house and then
she turned and tracked them back again!
Wondering at her kitten’s glee,
Mom flicked the switch, so she could see…
and after she had sighed, and wept
took her broom and carefully swept…
while Mabel
entranced
threw herself into the dirt dance.
~
Audio version: http://bit.ly/1tWqlOD
Written when Mabel was just wee, and published for her sixth birthday, 2014
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would climb the drapes,
wanting to see what life looked like from up above.
It wasn’t mischief, it was love! of exploration
and adventure. And folks, here’s where I should mention:
Haze was born into a barn, where climbing things could do no harm
and walking on the rafters was the favourite pastime of her cousins
who filled the barn in tens and dozens; from their perch, close to the sky
casting a protective eye
over the cows below.
~
When Hazel moved to city life she honed her skills in chasing mice:
some had little hearts that beat though most had plastic tails and feet.
Those plastic mousies ran Haze ragged, but they soon learned
her claws are jagged. And each toy mouse has lost its tail
to Hazel’s nails.
~
Now Hazel is a little older and, we say, a bit less bold,
she doesn’t swing from chandeliers or dangle from the chiffon sheers.
But she still claims the highest shelf, contentedly washing herself
and from her perch, close to the sky
casting a protective eye
over the house below.
~
Audio version: http://bit.ly/1uejuzg
Written when Hazel was 10 years younger, and published for her 11th birthday, 2014
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In the drowsy bee-time after lunch,
three of us dozing under the slow fan:
you, in my lap, and you, in the basket –
and my love spread over both like a gossamer blanket,
tucking you around with soft breaths
and the ease of honeyed dreams.
Like floats in the holding area,
cats sprawl on hardwood, tails
flicking.
Woman puts her feet on the floor,
pushes out of bed, starts
to the hallway, rubbing her tousled head.
Cats leap into formation,
trotting behind, long tails waving,
proud victorious flags.
Sitting on the sofa, staring at the perfect flames;
the two cats, having argued over who gets the lap and who
the haunch, now settled in their places;
I’m thinking about a perfect life, which is what this looks like.
Rain drums on the roof and falls in waves from that one place
where the eave is blocked with leaves. I think about the sheep
in the next-door field, and how their wool might smell,
soaked and muddy. Not shorn and washed, combed and spun and dyed,
and in my hands with circular needles
and a simple scarf pattern;
but live and wiry, doing its job: temperature-moderator, dirt-catcher,
bramble-intervenor.
I think of you, and what it means that you are sitting there,
and the scarf in my hands is a gift for you, and the fire
in the hearth is one you laid and lit.
I’m thinking about a perfect life, which is what this looks like.
*Billy Collins is a contemporary American poet, Poet Laureate of the US 2001-2003. I was recently introduced to his work by the enthusiasm of my friends Dove and Lorri, and I am grateful. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Billy_Collins
