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Monday, January 23, 2012



                WAITING FOR IT

          My cat jumps to the window sill

          and sits there still as a jug.

          He's waiting for me, but I cannot be

          coming, for I am in the room.

          His snout, a gloomy V of patience,

          pokes out into the sun.

          The funnels of his ears expect

          to be poured full of my footsteps.

          It, the electric moment, a sweet

          mouse, will appear; at his gray

          eye's edge I'll be coming home

          if he sits on the window ledge.

          It is here, I say, and call him

          to my lap. Not a hair

          in the gap of his ear moves.

          His clay gaze stays steady.

          That solemn snout says: It

          is what is about to happen, not

          what is already here.

                                   ---May Swenson



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