Aren�t we seeking intensity of thought
rather than tranquility of touch?
                                    Vincent van Gogh

A cat strolls into my garden
and sits under the cool awning
of pines. Slowly, she begins
to tongue-scrub her paw.

I watch the cleansing ritual
and remember a shoe,
a black and white saddle.

More than feline, her sculpture
becomes a sensible kind of footwear.
I went through Sacred Heart school
tying its laces, polishing leather
and keeping my feet bridled
on the path to salvation.

At seventeen, I turned to heels
and scratched the waxed floor, not thinking
about the scars I left or ones
I would uncover. Now a divorce later,
two affairs peeled off like sling-backs,

I wonder who sent the cat; Sister Vincent Marie
frowning in the wimpled spread
of clouds, or the artist at his work bench
warning me to stand still, slide into humbler steps.

The past always comes back
                creased, very heavy with use.



�2006 by Wendy Howe