The Thin Line

The Twit has made a bath
of the roof gutter. Could I
change into that bird, shed my scales
and spread my wings.

I am just aflutter in the wind.
A sum of countless mothers
and fathers on the brim.

Squeezed between forbears
and children, who, like peaceful
doves, take off and find their twin.

My sister now gone and I alone
have caught up with her age,
her rage.

The Caan and Able myth
sealing her fate, one Saturday
morning.

A train of thought led to
her demise at a solid station.
The driver, a pawn in her scheme

unable to go back to sleep and face
another day at his post.
A farewell letter lingers

passed from hands to heart
forcing on us the irrevocable.
The thin line

changing our lives forever.
Were I to become that twit
enjoying its bath,

careless, free,
no cat predator to be seen.

©susanbauryrouchard

inspired by Billy Collins' The Barometer

On the wall in a dream house
next to the polished card table,

It hangs with hands
imperceptably shuddering.

Between the clouds and rain
it shivers. And when summer comes

it glides frankly towards sunny
spells with a hint of a drizzle.

When the air turns about,
gusts from the South,

dampness rises
from the meadow and wood.

The atmosphere becomes
a static bomb on the verge.

Its hands edge
towards a storm undeclared.

After pelts of water and hail
the cycle resumes.

©susanbauryrouchard