this christmas was/is a white and unseasoned season. maybe even bitter, although it does not feel so. it does not feel like anything, really.
the snow is crisp. the cold is timely. the moon pours blue light over the silent(ish) city. the room temperature is adequate.
when i am not working, doing something practical, i just sit and stare into nothing. blank. more than blank, empty three-dimensionally.
my one and only, elegant, white cat with the yellow eyes has been lost for a week tonight.
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unseasoned season — I like that.
I take it that your cat really has disappeared? And that contributes to the blandness?
I’m so sorry. When your poem first came on email, I could see only the first stanza and didn’t even realize there was more until I clicked on your actual page. As you know ( you made nice comments) I have a cat now, and would miss her so much, but of course your cat has been a part of your life for much longer. You do put words together beautifully.
Helen
Thank you for both understanding and kind words. Yes, my Beryl-cat now can be considered officially lost. That is what happens when one gives freedom to another, the other can choose something else.
It is as if I’d lost an organ, a sense – probably this is why all feel so bland, as you out it.