Always in a rush. Take the bird from its nest, feathers still wisps of down, fling it up and watch it fall, chagrined but not surprised to see it crumpled on the ground. Another victim of the heedless, headlong dash to what comes next.
That’s she.
And he, too; he’ll open every door, opened to him or not; he never knocks; breaks down the ones left locked; regrets too late what his boots trample.
Flowers.
A friend’s feelings.
The moment he might have had if only he had waited.
The pregnant pause between knuckles on wood and stirring inside. The knife edge of anticipation lost to him who cannot even feel the blade, so numb has he become.
He cannot wade into many waters, hear the spirit calling, deep to deep.
And she, she cannot keep
this up,
life spilling through a punctured cup.
So come with me this fine morning when the sky is red to the place where two orange cats have found a spot behind the garden shed, which will in time be warm with pools of light.
It’s chilly now, but do not fight it.
Sit. Let your back lean against the wood where the paint is chipping off. Feel the paw on your leg and then how he shapes himself to you — the old Tom with the torn ear — now curled against your chest, as if this were most natural:
to simply breathe and let your breath be shaped by something larger. Some greater, living thing.
“life spilling through a punctured cup.” -the cup, yes. Always filling but never full. Nicely done.
My old, but not late, cat, Oliver, is orange with a torn ear. Thank you for remembering him to me.