My cat is teaching me to see and be.

At first a clumsy-clothed giant,

he has taught me to kneel

and shrink,

how to make myself disappear

and

be

still.

 

Nose twitching,

ears

scanning.

At first nothing but the wallpaper rustle of wind in leaves,

until I follow

his arrow-yellow eyes

and see this stem weave to a different current,

hear a scratch,

a clutch of claw

on grass,

gripping

to eat seeds,

big ears sateliting

tail curled around stem

balanced.

 

Poised,

the world slows,

three watchers,

breathing,

taut with anticipation,

twitching.

 

Then it scuttles off.

 

Cat exhales

lets his haunches sink into the earth.

 

I sink too into childhood

when the smell of earth was as familiar to me as the scents of home,

I look up from my belly where I lie

looking through long grass,

smaller

than for many decades now.

The world feels huge,

my garden a jungle,

I could play out all day,

watching bees nestle in blue,

the fountains of grass cascading,

light glancing off the fine filigree.

 

Time spins out and back and round

taking me from the world of mind and screens

into the sensual underbelly,

of dappled apricot,

waiting,

breathing,

alert.