The Rough edge of joy
I've been going over my class notes this morning getting prepared for the Mother Earth Class. I came across this poem by Francine Marie Tolf.
At 50 I sometimes feel a suttle but irreversible sadness seeping in my blood.
I have failed at important things.
I long for a home I could love.
But recently I brought home a young cat who is not at all sad. If a goddess had held this stray by the heals and dipped her in brightness as the infant Archilles was dipped, she could not be more golden, the gold of a jar of marmalade quivering in the sun.
Sometimes she presses her nose against mine wonderingly, but more often Lilly attacks my ankles with sheathed claws, then sommersaults onto her back to gaze at me upside down.
I can no longer leave drawers open or pens lying about.
My bathroom is smudged with paw prints.
Last night on the bus, I remembered she was waiting for me at the front door, this hellion, and my heart laughed.
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