(Poem by Wendy Howe )

The woman's instinct
springs from the claws of a cat.
                                     An old Slavic saying.

Soft tip of tail
long curve of lash,
they tease, entice and steal
the suitor's breath,
the candle flame's
attention as they pass.

The stillness of wood
copper or glass
flares with their reflection,
an agile quickness
springing from temper
or grace.

Private, sly
they stretch and conceal
the truth like a shadow.
Yet, with no veil
they turn a veiled face

to the onlooker
the open door.
The wind knows their scent,
their secrets best ---
sleek woman, cat
and house of amour.
© 2012, Wendy Howe. E-mail.

To know more  about this poem,   about Wendy Howe

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