Such cold and kindly happening
is worthy of full attention.
At least the cat thinks so.
What does she know? She’s only
a lump of golden fur on a red rug
sitting immobile, mesmerized
by motion on the other side of glass,
a constancy of flakes falling
soundlessly to the white earth.
What does she know of consequences
difficult for drivers of our trucks and cars,
for keepers of the fire, for bones
whose trembling tells their skin
that they should be in Florida?
Maybe all the cat can know is
absentmindedness about these things.
Maybe she is seeing only visions
of a world of only happening
where sorely needed softness
sometimes falls for hours on end;
where, if you should look
most deeply into weather, you
might sometime see a friend.