Handling Tigers

HANDLING TIGERS
October 26, 2006


I’ve handled tigers with their warm
orange sunsets behind strips of black
cats and dog nose blacks and spongy
padded paws with retractable claws.

I’ve rubbed their ears on
fortuitous afternoons with
serendipity blowing
in my hair and the sweet smell
of the pinwheel fair churning
through the rarefied air.

I’ve heard them roar and seen
them gather growls from deep inside their
craws and felt the gates of hell open
wide while they beckoned me inside
as I shook and felt my knees knock
against the plush sides of their hides.

I’ve stood their ground and walked their
paths and touched their fur and
gazed into their marble eyes where
legends live beneath blue skies and
freedom lurks and ducks and spies
and all thing wild seek surprise.

I’ve been with tigers on darkening hills
and walked between their fangs;
white towers on red panting carpets;
I’ve trembled there, gleaned wisdom fair
and heard their soft and friendly words
like reeling birds roosting in my heart,
coiling to start.

I’ve handled, rubbed, and heard the tigers;
stood with them and walked and stalked
and talked with them. I’ve feared and
trusted them in turn, I’ve taught and
fought and stayed to learn one thing,
for sure; it can’t occur;
there is no handling tigers.