Nothing fishy about this one,
Asleep and curled
Up like a furry worm
In the warm winter
Sunlight outside
The fishmonger’s open door.
Even one with a fuzzy poetic
Imagination can guess that
She’s dreaming of nothing fancy—
Fish heads, bones, a special place
In the sun, nothing more.
For those who appreciate the study of the mysteries of the lives of cats, this will be a masterpiece.
ReplyDeleteSometimes "nothing more" can be more than we'll ever guess.
Tom,
ReplyDeleteI shall have to translate this into Greek and show it to a good poet friend who lives in a neighboring village and has--at last count--more than thirty!