Warm Sun

ALFRED KREYMBORG

WARM SUN

(For My Birthday)

Cats become prisoners in the snow

that must have fallen over night for them

to paw the air dancing as they move

from white to white. And flicking off flakes

that cling to their fur with love as it seems

to a man at the window who lives above.

Like the child I still am my nose is pressed

against the cold pane. I drum my fingers

to rouse one of the cats in the yard below.

Only a kitten answered my appeal.

Her trumpet ears stood up, saluted me.

As her yellow eyes held mine in a trance

the warmth that stole through me was twice her size.

Thus we converse in a language of our own

nobody heeds except myself alone.

No more speed is required for me to grow.

I love all things that when they move are slow.