Frozen Retreat


It all comes down
to a choice:

safety or freedom.

The forest expands
as I walk, still a
compact heaven,
a corral for inner

but threatening
the safety
I sold myself for.


I don't know the god
of this grumbling
but it seems just
fine with two colors
and a Benedictine sky.


Another January and something
needs to happen.


Someone's well-bred garden
is acting up:
honeysuckle vines
still shimmy
and they're grinding
out the blues . . .


even in silence, some freedom
and primitive jazz.


My old cat used to
follow me on these
clean-shaven winter

I like to think,
in his new life, he
is a living myth
in a softer kingdom.

How I miss his ferocious joy.


Cats make the right choices
and I am just a
temporary lord of
limping rivers and
mystified squirrels,

some embalmed branches
and leftover surgical air . . .


a safe and furious
visitor on my
way to forever.


Patricia Joan Jones

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Cascade's picture

I love it ! Your writing

I love it ! Your writing touches me. It's earthy and spiritual. Thank you for sharing your beautiful words with us