Winter drops the late afternoon sun into my bedroom
through the sliding glass door.
Any time after three o’clock.
I have to invite him in first, which I find charming.
Otherwise, his face just burns the edges of my curtains
like an eclipse I can touch.
And so, I think I’ll do just that…
My palms hover over the fabric, pin-holed from cats,
reminding me of that native myth where tribes of birds come together
and the hummingbird pierces at last
the black blanket God threw over the world,
making the stars with its beak.
If anyone can manufacture drama from shoving aside curtains, it would be me.
And this too brief encounter is mine alone,
save for the three cats shamelessly making love to the sun-baked tile at my feet.
I wonder now if Grace is more taken, than given.
The animals teach us that, don’t they?
That we must set our own tables to eat.
And that the lust within our own senses make the wine and wafer of boundless communion.