Poetic Forecast Poem by elysabeth faslund
Poetic Forecast
Winds have not begun, yet.
Silent...too silent. A hush.
Water in the sky, rapids
Through beds of December...
The hunting cats approach,
Each ghosting through the woods,
Padding. Silent...too silent.
Wolf stands bristled. Knows.
She looks at me. Bristled...
Knowing the forecast
Of pen to paper...
Storm...carnage....
Elysabeth I like the line about hunting cats. I seen our cats hunt in the woods just like that.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/18/2024 6:35:07 AM # 1.0.0.1119
When a mean storm is imminent our Zoe pins his gray ears back on his neck and slinks low to the floor like a feline international limbo champ.