In front of the fire.
The cat lies on your lap.
She melts like a lump of butter,
And pours down your leg.
She lies there :
A molten puddle.
Her beauty palpable
With closed-eyed fingers.
Richard Brenneman: Eats, Shoots 'n' Leaves
Thomas Lord: BerkeleyNativeSun.com
Jane Stillwater’s Web Log
(and please support Grace Underpressure with a donation :-)