Friday, November 25, 2016

Niagara Sonnet Twenty-One

Go catch a mouse in your medieval life,
for Persian cats these days have not changed tin
to bronze; I would that you go out, yet in
you come, no alchemist of human strife.
You chased a dandelion’s last feather,
and watched the drooping rose lay down its head,
you curled up in a cozy basket bed,
your down was damp from terrible weather.
What’ere I wish, it likely will not be,
and I could cross my fingers, hope to spy,
while serving chlorophyll in salmon pie,
around a cat as difficult as me.
With luck, she never actually offends,
she utters loud meows with no pretense.

Emily Isaacson