feet know this floor board by board, the gaps, the splinters, all of it.

some added pillows on the bed.   think I’ll keep them around, close to me.

a pillow is almost a cat.   or maybe dog, but I don’t know dogs that way.

this room thinks it is the ocean.   that’s why you see blue around every where.

meditation rolls like wheels do.   in fact, it was created before wheels were.

floorboards creak as a sign of enduring affection.   familiar, those feet.

window shades, one step away.   from there we can see the barn outside.

if the cat was home, she’d be sound asleep on the bed.   next to me.

light arrives just like a bird.   slender claws mark where faith holds on.

before me, a child slept in this bed.   like a dog, I circle before laying down.

another name for bed is nest.   a nest remembers all your many dreams.

some threads.   some webs we sketched.   like eight legs would draw,

enticingly.
 
 
if I called out your name.   would you respond?   here, come close.
 
 
now, close your eyes.