Bill Mawhinney
Light in a
Throwaway Bowl
Hunkered in a
push-up crouch,
his tongue flicking
water, Old Tom,
a grizzled,
half-feral orange tabby,
plucks light from a
throwaway bowl.
Each morning, this
veteran hillside denizen
pads up the deck
stairs to peruse yard-sale pans
replenished with
water and bottom-shelf food
after nightly
raccoon raids.
As he laps,
shimmering sun
flashes in the dish, startles my eye.
Shards of
unexpected silver sparkle the surface,
transparent but an
instant before.
Sated, Tom yawns,
unfurls himself on
warm planks
beside my chair
where I slouch reading poems,
my feet propped on
a patio table.
I turn a page, but
dazzling afterimages
ripple between the
lines.
Freckled fire
ignited in a dented skillet
by an outcast cat
dangles me
beyond all words
over the trembling
radiance blazing
deep within 10,000
things.
A Question of
Scale
The staircase in a
doll’s house
leads to an attic
of comfortable size,
a space of
manageable intimacy
for a six-year-old.
A father who cares
for a malleable mind
hunkers down to eye
level
when his boy asks a
wondering question.
Such an innocent
inquiry shouldn’t have to look up
into the
foreshortened, distorted features
of a giant adult.
A child is already
a full-blown philosopher
when asking, “Where
did I come from?”
Jogging under a
winter morning sky
I still wonder that
same question,
wishing the
universe would kneel down
so I could hide my
face in the stars
and run on forever. |
