The Mouse and the Storm

Have you ever tried to escape

from that which you feared

looming

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

storm

began to tell its story in

you-will-pay-attention-to-me

earnest.

What delight the mouse

must have felt as he,

or she,

surveyed his,

or her,

surroundings.

“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)