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  1. Photogram

    If what we had grew stronger, if words
    did not forget the shells that shook

    them loose, if last night’s rain did not fall
    in a soft staccato on the ground– If,

    despite the clamor of figures on the street,
    we could stay tethered to this space–

    But the light is always changing,
    and the edges of the porch blur and color

    with fine snow. In her own footsteps,
    the feral cat walks toward the garden,

    tracking moments that preceded it.
    See the clear imprint housed

    in each old crater, see how water
    changes to other forms of water.

    Ferrous water washed away by salt,
    leaving blue silhouettes of stalks and algae,

    heart-shaped leaves; unfinished shapes,
    bodies pressed close on the muslin sheet.

    ~ Luisa A. Igloria
    01 18 2011


  2. A TALE OF A TRYST

    Espy on her moving foglike through snowpacked flowerbeds,
    and quietly draw the blinds lest you startle the feral cat
    before she turns and gets to the edge of the cabin porch blurred
    into the landscape by fine snow—still with graceful gait,
    still oblivious of frantic twitter from the quivering branches,
    still the master of her needs.

    Watch her walk sure-footed in her own footsteps through
    benighted garden snow, clear prints in each old crater,
    meandering steps on steps like old markers or old habits.

    This is the way of the free, the wizened, and the wise:
    track back to where the wild spirit finds the true wild heart
    wandering where it once found warmth and caress when
    none could be hunted.

    Espy on her moving to the edge of the porch,
    close enough to feel the fire, close enough
    to want to jump on a lap and fearlessly, gently snuggle
    where love burned bright and rages still. Then take her in.

    — ALBERT B. CASUGA
    Mississauga, January 18, 2011

    Dave: How serendipitously this complements Luisa’s “Photogram.”


  3. Dave:

    Re my last line comment, I also meant “complements” (in that her poem ends with “bodies pressed close on the muslin sheet.” Serendipitous? Creative impulses through cyberspace. Also note: Poems born 22 minutes apart.


  4. Dave:
    Crucial adjustments these:
    3rd line: before she turns and gets to the edge of the cabin porch blurred
    7th line: Watch her walk sure-footed in her own footsteps through
    Please? (Again, was quick to the draw, but shot my foot!) :)
    Thank you. See you at the porch.
    Albert


    1. O.K., but you can always just post a corrected version of the poem in a new comment, too.


      1. Thanks, Dave. I also posted it in my litblog with proper attribution for Morning Porch. I am enjoying the limbering, and am happy to have Luisa for company, and you as host on the porch!


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