Frozen Retreat
It all comes down
to a choice:
safety or freedom.
The forest expands
as I walk, still a
compact heaven,
a corral for inner
stallions,
but threatening
the safety
I sold myself for.
I don't know the god
of this grumbling
mausoleum,
but it seems just
fine with two colors
and a Benedictine sky.
Another January and something
needs to happen.
Someone's well-bred garden
is acting up:
honeysuckle vines
still shimmy
and they're grinding
out the blues . . .
even in silence, some freedom
and primitive jazz.
My old cat used to
follow me on these
clean-shaven winter
evenings.
I like to think,
in his new life, he
is a living myth
in a softer kingdom.
How I miss his ferocious joy.
Cats make the right choices
and I am just a
temporary lord of
limping rivers and
mystified squirrels,
some embalmed branches
and leftover surgical air . . .
a safe and furious
visitor on my
way to forever.
Patricia Joan Jones
To read more of my work go to: My Poetry List
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Frozen Retreat
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