Calico asleep at her side,
She murmured. Quaked may be the word.
Morning sun aslant, I set down the tray,
And looked at what I love
Most. In this world and any other.
You were restless, I say.
Bad dream. Bad, she repeats. Turns.
Hides, for I was in it. Again.
It is unfair, the tricks the mind plays.
I told her this, my hand in her hair
As the cat, yawning, stretched,
And jumped down.
Her back, in that moment,
Was a wounded sparrow.
So I touched it.
I brought orange juice, I half-whisper.
And what else? What else?
Moving the tray, I get back in bed.
I get next to my own heartbeat.
And eyes that have not yet been open
This day, know, and see
That the air beneath, will be safe.
© Ciprianowords Inc. 2007