aged and awash,
in a sighing of thin blue pooling
she sits.
in her rocker of melancholic reverie. perhaps
these two words are incongruous; to be
in a silver shimmering sheen of
reverie and, melancholia.
and perhaps it is incongruous that as
she stares outward while only looking
inward, the soft lapping of sorrow playing
at the shores of her timeless feet,
an ecstatic cat sits upon her lap.
sorrows repeat in her mind, her
hand repeats its stroke and scratch
melody. the cat warm
in its cacophony of purr, she, cooling
in her quiet climb of misery’s mountains.
on a wooden chair that chatters
in conversation with her aging bones, she
sits in monolithic memoriam
to life’s sorrows. and in her lap
sits a pet cat, petted, knowing only joy.
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