Perhaps I am always
thinking of you, the way
the obsessed or grieving
do. Perhaps because
it’s spring outside
or my book on flower
gardening arrived.
Perhaps because coffee
is not yet made and we too
have a long hall
in our house, slicing
like a blade.
Today I hear your labored
breath, your fingernail’s
yes to a restless scalp.
I hear the screen door
open, the wind chime toll,
hummingbirds whir, and
the tabby in your lap—
her smarting claws,
her lavish purr.
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Pat M. Kuras says
Lovely poem, Sarah! Great to see it!
Sarah Crowley Chestnut says
Thank you, Pat–happy writing!
Jenni Ho-Huan says
The lavish purr. Yes.