The cat’s tail moves like a brush,
writing sweet nothings
in a calligrapher’s hand.
She closes her eyes in a sunbeam,
she dives off a table
into the swirling Persian rug.

At rest she is as still as stone,
small breaths rising and falling
as she naps on a window.
The next moment she gallops
after me in the hallway,
her white paws pounding on tile.

It is enough to move one to trust a natural spontaneity,
the gates open to a garden of action.
Though I cannot have the grace of a cat’s gait,
I may be able to find my words
standing on the banks,
fishing in life’s breaking waves.