Ode to a Molting Lamb

Wrapped in clouds of existential fluff,
you wonder
whether to chase the butterfly,
or ponder
what ever happened to that locke--
that dread-- which passed you by.

Where from your being did it first depart?
Not Soul, nor Heart.
For if from there it had been ripped,
the tearing would inflict great pain.

Nose: Sensitive cartlidge;
Paw: Lack of fur;
Belly: Ticklish weakness there to blame;
Tail, Tail . . .
O wicked, sinful, conniving Tail!
Circles, circles, circles, circles;
again, again
satanic, demon Tail decieves.

Perhaps Tail-- that temptress Tail--
released and lost the locke.

Unless of course it happened that
by Back the locke escaped.

Teeming with pillows, clouds, forests,
bursting at the seams,
it's probable that a locke
could forgoe dear back unscathed.
A bird could build a nest atop
and Back would never know.

By Back or Tail
the tale remains:
Dear lamb has shed some fluff.