Lion

Lion on my windowsill
what are you looking at,
what are you thinking.

Silently you watch me
move through the room.

Yesterday
you looked outwards
on the age-old chestnut
down by the gate,
on the ladder resting
against the wall
to one side of the window,
on the lilac bush
halfway down the slope
already weighted down
with fragrant purple clusters.
My Ukrainian helper
asked permission
to cut a branch for his wife
who missed the lilacs
vin her native land.
Spring has come and gone
as the red-breasted robin
perches momentarily on the balcony railing.

Today you gaze inwards
and see me sitting at my computer.
The array of objects on the windowsill
keeps you,
and me,
company.
There’s a branch of that purple lilac
in a vase we had considered anything but beautiful
but now are glad we have.
It was made, come to think of it,
by my brother in law
who must have thought its green and yellow grooves
lent it an air of distinction;
there’s a deep purple primula,
a birthday present weeks ago
from the woman who helped
me take a bath;
there’s an orchid,
small six-petal blossoms,
a sign of peace after a misunderstanding
with my son.
And at your feet that curious object
impressed with signs of the zodiac
is an iron wafer press.
Found by my husband
years ago
in the ruins of a castle,
it may have been
used by nuns
to make hosts for the mass.

Your gaze follows the shadows
of a host of figures
who lived here
in years gone by:
the man who created you
from wood, smiles
as he sees you take shape,
there’s an old man
convinced he’s still a Don Giovanni,
there’s a group of guileless students
misled into thinking he was a genius,
there’s an aging English professor
and his adoring much younger student,
both frightened
when a frog jumped into the room
from the greenhouse,
city dwellers unused to creatures
of this or any other sort.

You follow me
as I maneuver my way,
supported by a walker,
to the couch by the window
from which one can see the moon
and stars at night.
When I turn the corner
I am out of sight.
Do I still exist for you?
Do you wait for my return?

Do you remember
when you served as lookout post
for a sleek black cat
hoping to sight some birds
before jumping down for breakfast?

Lion, with your great curly mane,
what are you looking at today
as raindrops fall silently outside?
Life goes on around you
as you sit there waiting,
wondering.

As we all sit waiting,
wondering
what the future holds.