We live unsettled lives
And stay in a place
Only long enough to find
We don't belong.
--Mark Strand

Springtime in Lynchburg

What blood was this, and what roses? It could have been the rose of union, the blood of murder, or the rose of beauty bare and the blood of some unspeakable sacrifice or birth.
-- Annie Dillard

It is Spring:
the old tom cat
leaves blood prints on the porch.
I hate them and the open throated swallow
at the end of their serpentine path.
I hate them as I hate the hyacinth scent
that hangs stale in the air these mornings,
and how I have never learned to look away.
All journeys end this way. What’s the surprise?
And yet, how handsome the old tom looks
reclining beneath the azalea bush,
licking his jaws with his pink tongue,
purring like a lion.