Cat Poem by Don Pearson

I can see patterns in the waves
and dancing particles
as well as most people.
I see the sun
as you probably do,
feel its warmth,
observe its path across the hills.

When it rains, I get wet.
I accept that,
although, sometimes,
with regret.
I may be wrong but
I believe that
I would still be wet.
even if I did not notice.
But it is true that, in Devon,
it can rain very heavily
and I might be wetter,
once I was aware of it,
than I had been before.

Wednesday has nine letters
and comes only when I remember
and there is no sound
that I cannot hear
and people say
that May is green.

I would like to peep
out of the corner of my eye,
to observe unobserved
and without influence.
Until the box is opened,
Schrödinger, my cat, does not know
any more than you do,
whether he is dead and alive
or only one of those.
Stare at him and he seems
momentarily unsure,
perhaps considering
whether his fate
has yet been determined.

He does not make waves,
despite occasionally behaving
as if I were intending
to poison him myself.
He leads his life
as if he believes in free will,
surprisingly attracted to boxes,
seemingly unaware of his
genetic predispositions
or the patterns imposed
on his behaviour
by his life to date.

Schrödinger is
better adjusted
both to certainties
and to uncertainty
Than am I.

Einstein is easy
in small amounts.
Quantum physics is,
relatively, not.

25th December 2008