dusty bougainvillea

The last flames of crimson fade
And threadbare flowers,
Now grey as ash,
Like paper lanterns
Drift, whispering, away.

Daughter of the Ghost Cat

Here and now there
On the patent leather of her coat
One delicately etched white hair
As if to accentuate the glossy.
And on the tiny Zorro mask of her face
Above her eyes
A sweet preciousness
The smallest starbursts of pale hairs
Almost invisible
Nothing more than a ghost whispered hint
Almost imagined.

Her skinny whippy tail
Runs like a necklace through my fingers
Waving at its tip
A smudge of white
As if it had in passing
Like the finest bristle brush
Flirted briefly with an artists palette
And then run purring into a new adventure.