Blue Cats

Sometimes when a poet
writes about blue cats
wearing bow ties,
she is not writing
about blue cats
wearing bow ties.

Instead, she is really writing
about Love
and how he makes her laugh,
eyes turned to the heavens
and her soft belly relaxing
into a sigh.

Sometimes she wonders
how blue cats came
to symbolize Love
in her mind.
With that single thought
she rolls over
in her soft February sheets
and reaches to touch
warm skin, smiling.

Last time she remembers
walking up the stairs,
Love was waiting for her
with a surprise embrace
wanting to share
forgiving words with her,
wanting to place his hands
on her face,
gently looking her in the eyes
consumed with heat and time
passing too quickly.

A butterfly tempting the paws
of a blue cat.

It was not a lost opportunity.
Instead, Love took the poet
to pray under the moon.

Blue moon, like Picasso's brushes
painting confused shapes
with God-words
that no one else
could hear.
Blue paper saturated
with translation;
a key to all language.

Blue cats wearing bow ties,
making her laugh out loud.

Sometimes
joy

just happens.

Slowly Waking

Honey melts with lemon
and hot water in a cup
made by a local potter.

Start the day breathing,
writing.

The cleansing ritual
of words making their way
onto the blank space
erases the mind's holding,

opens up the universe
to liquid possibility
and forgiveness for clenching
the fingers of too much hope
around nothingness.

Instead, this morning,
open your aching hands,
unfold your arms like wings,
and fly off this page
into the sound
of the full moon.

Another day
waking slowly
from all dreaming.