Poem for Mornings

It is meant for something gathering,
Always slowly, as though we had all
The balance of our time to observe
The world being trundled by, or why
It is taking too long for dew to brighten
On the stalks of grass or how light
Has been pummeling the woodshed
Where I am watching the cat roll
Over and over until it rises
And draws itself out into a straight line.

Then I almost lose her in the sun
As she breaks for the farther field.
Where I chase after her with a yawn.
There is nothing much else I can do
As I whisper at my coffee to cool --
And like everything else, it is taking
Its own sweet time -- except maybe
To find some solace in our slow
Unbending, while the world wheels
And tilts, allowing us this chance
To count out each breath. Also that
This should become like our cat’s habit
Each time – so we can stretch limbs
To their ninth, every paw foursquare
To the happenstance of eight o’ clock.