Time’s passage crawls, a ruinous resin on life-glass
A slug’s slime trail, residue of mundane moments past
Cast vapors on the screen to no avail- no
such scraper or detergent could expunge it.
Cat’s beacons, those spheres, green portals in a room unlit
No doubt illuminate some feline truth, terribly toothsome,
Half-closed, her claws retract and extend in a kneading gesture.
Even a huntress longs for the distant memory of mother’s milk.
A gentle blush and the perfume of petals
Spring in winter, that’s how the air smelled,
delicately fragrant and peach-pink, her sandpaper tongue
with a mew scrapes my outstretched palm.
“Child,” she sighs, her voice a multitudinous chorous,
her every breath a somber chorale, “do you see the pattern?”
With a flick of her tail the fractals unravel into pupils dilated
when the girl-child gazes into the void- it gazes back.
Girl-child drinks deep of the draught-
this must be the fabled milk of human kindness.
Each sip is sweet and musky,
tinged with multifaceted emotion.
Round like the om, her open mouth grateful
for the dewdrop ambrosia of sacred geometry
The cross-section of Sierpinski’s triangle
Culled from cut blossoms and tree-fruits