Thursday, July 2, 2015
The cat leaps onto the altar.
Settles. Then up again, steps across,
nuzzles the lily aside
to drink from the bowl where it floats.
Jumps down, curls against a thigh.
A wren in the tree goes berserk with anxious chatter,
the cat creeps off.
(who would be me)
calls her back,
calls himself back to the mala, to his breath,
though none of it was departure.