Contemplating my dead – a rising number -,
resting on the sofa downstairs
under Anna's Grandma's old quilt
with Arvo Pärt's FRATRES on Spotify,
and the logs burning in the stove
with the sound of passing time
and the crackling of crematory bones,
the old, skinny cat lying on my chest,
at ease over my heart,
paws together, head raised like the Sphinx,
purring to himself in short breaths;
his closed eyes looking straight into my ditto,
in warm acceptance of the limitations of life
- and love can get no closer,
with Death practicing our lives
to ensure a smooth passage;
February's soldiers soldering each chilly moment
with ice & snow and smoky exhalations;
the birds flocking the feeders;
the day turning like a polar bear in the snow