Just a man in the arena
A poem I wrote today for my cat, Stella.
She is nothing but a silent witness in the dark, with laser eyes bright like stars. She is nothing but a scratch in the flesh and an African instinct, hunting us down. She is nothing but a clown dancing with ghosts, jumping around. She is nothing but a chirping sound, smashing against windows, freaking out. She is nothing but a bundle of fur, purr, and meow, a shy friend reaching out.
A poem I wrote tonight for my wife.
Among the white nights of Canada you lay small like a restless cloud, dancing in a vague and tumultuous sky, afraid and delicate like a breeze, fierce and bright like a storm. You are red, a weightless maple leaf trembling and absent, coloring the pathway or resting between the pages of a book, lost among the rhythm of words. You are small like silence, a snowflake, a butterfly in spring, a drop of dew, the flight of an arrow, a grain of wheat, a remote star shyly reflected in the naked eye. Small you are beautiful and dignified like a boat venturing for the open sea, fragile like a ladybug resting on your hair, thin like rain watering the garden of our love.