Frisson

The mournful northern winds howl around the poet’s head a frisson of sorrow and loss dipped into cold waters of winter he yearns for Eros’ return warmth tenderness attachment all missing from his forest hut fitted solely to his solitary self a creative garret a hermit’s cave the word alone embraces him with its two-dimensional weight black marks on a white page cold and barren awaiting the glow of embers red smoke rising to the blackened sky winter’s toll on his pilgrim soul on the vagabond singer of troubadour refrains love’s labors lost on the winds I have tracked a bobcat across my father’s field my steps uncertain the big cat scooting into the open his quest uncharted his port unknown on this sea of grains and stalks of hay his lithe movements a study in fluidity sleek swerves and pivots across the grasses now lost to sight now found far from where I gaze a drifter’s trail a samba into encroaching shadows of dusk he is free of me and I of him only connect the wind chills at the back of my neck light retires for the night

the troubadour serenades

the poet and bobcat with timeless songs of Eros passionate and warm meant only for he who has ears to hear