The Celtic god of cats²
lifts her thoughts to leaves
and dawn, the quiet time
after work and fun,
the time when the world wanders
back to see
and to dream waking.
She watches drifts of snow’s desire
clear fall
from lightening sky.
Watches
this town, nestled against the hillside,
open its warmly quiet heart
to the sun.
Finds
the grain resting in warm bins,
soon to be planted
and to grow
within the heart
of earth warmed
by desiring rain.
She curls into rest
on the bag,
the grain cushion,
swallowed in the smells
of morning.
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