A circle of cat warms the blanket over my thighs.
I have been reading poetry, scouring for secrets in the lines-
secrets, answers, keys.
Outside my window is early Spring, she’s having a drink with her lover
the sky, they’re watching the brown grass and discussing their unruly young.
He frets about them more than she, and grumbles
when she only smiles, and touches his hand.
Robins set their round bright notes adrift through the rain.
The house is cold, it wants a fire in the iron stove,
but instead of laying wood and setting flame,
instead of chasing after words to settle in my fat and bones
I sit and watch the fluid, rising day
while the round cat hums and bathes.