Heed

this morning the cat

is crazed, can’t stay in,

can’t stay out, sprawls the

countertop, straddles

the sink, begs for running

water, have we an

intruder? or comes a tornado?

thunder growls, intermittent

rain, everything outside

is wet, none of the wet

clothes have dried

from yesterday’s boat ride

whatever’s amiss the cat

knows it & bids me heed

Imagine That

by Marie Ponsot

May morning, and the child

in ironed overalls squats

to report to herself

on the poise of a silk-smooth

stone. She hefts it

in her right hand, shifts it

to her left, tries a quick lick,

and sets it down, almost exactly

where she found it

                              in the yard in the dirt

                              in the grass in front of

the clump of fat-bud peonies.

She does not know the name, peony.

She does not know the name, stone.

She knows the stone by its gravity

its ironic taste its nameless

coloring

                             And after seventy years

will visit, again, the ready way

the stone settled back into place,

unevenly, not as it had been

not exactly            but satisfactorily,

to lodge untended in her memory

among other long-lived perennials.