WHEN I SEE HIM...I SEE YOU

He sleeps in temporary stillness
between the flowers and the fescue
in the muted shade of her peach tree,
no longer remembered
for summer fruit
produced with persistent splendor
or for her cobbler
that defied the imagination,
but for the graceful, sculpted form now revealed
as the spent leaves float to the earth,
one by one,
to another season
and another time.

Or, you may find him
reclined on my desk,
sleeping on papers
that used to be important,
but no longer have meaning
when compared to the significance of his company.
Resting his head gently on her laptop,
his paws draped on the keyboard,
he compells a single letter
to echo across the screen,
in search of absolutely nothing
except the present moment.

Just like my Florine,
even when motionless,
my cat, Woodrow,
is like a ballet dancer
floating over a stage,
owning not only the spotlight,
but the audience and the air.

We named him,
but no man owns him...
as no man owned her...
both complete in nature,
both creators of self esteem,
both bastions of emotional honesty.

He is an enigma...
she is my dream...
and I am priviledged
to visit both at the same time.

Woodrow is my bridge to old memories,
to another life and another time.
When I see him...

I see her...

elegant in solitude,
worthy of consummate love,
intelligent and courageous,
exquisite in heart and spirit.

When I see him...

I see Florine...

I see a masterpiece.


© JOHN PISCATELLA

THE CHANGING SEASONS

Leaning into the early evening
tasting a 12 year old Single Malt Scotch
for sheer pleasure...
like a hummingbird
carressing the flower
of a honeysuckle vine for nectar,
with single-mindedness
and savage passion,
I play at the edges of unearthing
the mysterious inner artistry
of an elixir that cannot be overlooked.

Like an oak cask,
once a home for sherry and port wine,
now a vessel for maturing spirits,
I expand and contract as the seasons change
from drought to monsoon,
from excess to absence,
from joy to pure darkness.
.
With the subtle, soulful sounds
of a muted jazz trumpet
floating in the background,
melting into the rich bouquet
and flavor of the whiskey,
I drift away
with the haunting melody,
alone to a tranquil space,
but never far
from what remains
in my heart
and imagination.

I remember something wonderful
touching my life.
So vivid the memories of a home
filled not only with love,
but of tranquil hearts acting lovingly...
always beating as one.

The circle is broken now,
vanishing like an orbitless star
in a blanket of clouds,
but never far from reappearing
in my atmosphere
on wind and dreams.

You are the most treasured part of my journey,
and I will continue to search for you
wherever my shadow falls.

I miss your company,
but most of all,
when the music speaks quietly
to my soul,
I miss your love.

© JOHN PISCATELLA