There are three nuts in my pocket:
not for Cinderella, for a squirrel or maybe for her boy-friend.
He's glaring at me with his cherry eyes from the spruce,
hid, frightening my cat Basia,
wise but timid.
I say to him, "Darling, do not be afraid, my dear kitten,
I'll read Basho for you, he's almost your namesake,
This is not what you think.
He's, of course, Japanese,
but not Murakami".
My old cat signs and closes his eyes,
sits down on the blanket next to me,
passing the voiceless massage:
"Relax, my Lord, read your haiku.
God bless you".
We've been reading wonderful poems together for at least sixteen years.
He knows by heart "Crook", "Anabel Lee",
almost all of Pluzhnik and Mike Johansen.
He is the genuine esthete, my cat Basia.
There's late night outdoors.
We read Basho.
I wish I could read Japanese.
Sorry for my translation, dear Basia.
18.3 22/05 2021
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© Copyright: Valentin Luchenko, 2021