Psalm 1

I like you better than almost any
person alive, though this might not
be saying much, now that I think about it.

I like you like rain after a long dry
spell and sunshine after a cloudy day.
Like an honest sentence, or the return

of ducks to a puddle in the park
in spring. I like what is invisible
behind your eyes gleaming in the dark.

I love the softest spot in the world
behind your ears, and watching
you lick your paw and wash

your face. (I do that too,
except for the licking.)
I love your appetite,

and your eagerness to go outdoors,
and to return. I admire the stripes
on your beautiful tail, the dark lines

running back from your eyes
like straps on a mask, and the way
you stretch one paw up to my seat

and then return to your dish.
The curve of your back
is a perfect thing.

I am endlessly encouraged
by the weight of you
curled and hot upon

my lap, barely fitting,
eyes shut but sometimes
opening the slightest bit

as if to check on me.
Rascal, sleep.
I am still here.

(Feb. 26, 2004)