The Cats Are All Off Sleeping

I passed up several poems
this weekend.
They lived through my dreams
like cats that slip through 
briefly opened doors.

Dreams flee upon awakening,
but poems you've got to
wrestle to the ground.

Snow is flaking, falling.
The cats are all off sleeping
or exploring far closets, who knows?

but all things
will come back to you in time
if they are true things
and they were yours.

So, you passed up
several poems this weekend.
They went where such poems go,
erased into the thin air

The dreams are yours,
and the moments of consciousness,
but these cats you've got to
wrestle to the ground.