A Golden Cat
As I walked to my office one day and stopped
by the flax bushes near the curve of the road
to look at the view of the city and Northeast Valley
and the amber poplars with the light shining through
them,
and the autumn trees turning where turn still means
decay,
the souring of the once fleshy foaming season,
a golden cat came out of the bushes, wove
around my feet, said, Own me, Own me, I am golden.
Scorched flax, leaves, berries on fire, none
come so gracefully to you; it is I
who am weaving the golden season.
I hurried on thinking perhaps I dreamed it.
Janet Frame
Photographs by Harold Edgerton
