The Tree Frog That Painted A Cat

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I write fewer and fewer poems because I see poetry everywhere around me. It is already written by nature.



When I was younger and I wrote poems every day, I knew that each one was a prayer of thanks for being alive. I literally wore the poem over my heart by folding the paper upon which it was written and placing it in my heart-side pocket. I wore it for the day in which I wrote it.

Now I see and say the prayer rather than write it. Sometimes I say it aloud. Sometimes I feel it so strongly it urges me to actually twirl my arms about. I feel a little like William Carlos Williams, who wrote the funny poem about dancing secretly and madly in his house when he was all by himself.

This morning I noticed the cat drawing on our bathroom window. It was done by a tree frog's sticky fingers.

It reminds that just beyond the window is where we buried our aged cat last Spring.

The tree frog's cat points to the old cat's burial ground. And reminds:  "Look again, my friends, I am here with you!"