Amorphous Me

      by Naomi Beth Wakan

I am a creature lacking edges;
my boundaries are ill-marked,
so I confuse myself easily
with others’ wealth and fame,
others’ beauty spots.
In moments of euphoria
at small successes, I
threaten to disappear
in that thin line that borders
sea and sky, and,
in fits of melancholy
at a rejected haiku,
I curl up tight inside
the closest cloud.
At such times, only
the promising plum blossom
and the neighbour’s ginger cat
sitting on our front-door mat
peering insightfully in
through the glass pane
restore me to solidity.

From And After 80, by Naomi Beth Wakan, Toronto: Bevalia Press, 2013, page 98.