Wednesday, September 19, 2012

The Mouse and the Storm

Have you ever tried to escape
from that which you feared
over the horizon?

The white-footed mouse
with black-bead eyes
found its way in
through some nook,
or perhaps it was a cranny,
just as the

began to tell its story in

What delight the mouse
must have felt as he,
or she,
surveyed his,
or her,

“Safe, warm, dry,

and so full of things to explore!”

We all take missteps in life.

On my knees,
giving last rites with
scrub brush and soap suds,

gazing at thin tail and blood smear
and a dollop of entrails,

Wondering was what was
called for…

What might a dry mouse’s last
thoughts be when pinned under
a firm paw in paradise?

Which of the six cats had
become the agent of death,
pearl-white canines and instinct?

Running from what we fear can be
exactly that force which conveys us
into the gaping mouth of loss,

great loss.

Sometimes it’s better to find out
what storms have to offer.

Still scrubbing away,

This, I decided, is a notion worth remembering.

So now, if you visit,
and you see the red heart painted
upon the cement,
at the basement threshold,

You’ll know what it means,

and remember the story
of a mouse and the storm.

© 2012-2014/Jamie K. Reaser
From Re-Union: Coming Home to Each Other (a work in progress)