Feet On Shifting Sand At the edge, the endless edgeof surf, wind and skythe womb of the world How does this foam-trimmed bluetan purple gray green pink-tintplace give birth to all color and lifeEarly light rises from night then sudden, sharp flameas if to rip open skin source eye beamingthe shock of glory through slits of tear-wet lashesI see a wide, polished copper slideI could clamber onto like a childand ride into that generative fire I place the tip of my tongueto lips moist in salt air, tasteof bread and water of lifepulse that fills my need You are waveand I am breaking I only ask to behealed Little Cat Writes Poetry She sprawls her bold title across the pagewhere I would read.She hides her tale from strangers, shares allwith those who give her time and care. Her energetic pawsprint a chase-scene narrative on the polished table.After a nap, she stretches, meanders,her lyrical lines loop and curveon the wet tiles of my just-washed floor. Her tidy steps turn where she arches,strokes my leg, smiles into my face,and her question-mark tail asks,already so sure of the answer. Still Life with Lemons On a day when I have no sugarI place my lemons in a cobalt bluebowl and set them in bright light. I take one, stroke its nubbly skin,inhale the zesty scent bursting outwhere a small dig bruises it. Symmetric and whole but not round, Ipush the small nipple of the flower endinto the center of my palm, a firm, defined point of pressure.I thumb the indentation where the stemonce held it to the tree like an umbilical cord and then let go. Eyes closed, I contemplatethe tart, juicy sections encased within and thenrelease it back into the beautiful, deep blue. Carol Bindel's poetry has appeared in Loch Raven Review, UU World, The Baltimore Sun, City Paper, Zelos and elsewhere. Her first collection, Inherited Estate: A Song Cycle, was published in 2012. She lives quietly in rural Maryland.