It used to be just books,
parchment and a quill,
perhaps the trunk of an
old oak tree for support
during pauses to reflect
on words, cradling novel’s
spine. This was before the
nothing of everything, lurking
images, news, videos, email,
promising connection to a
world of always distraction,
attempts to evade our depth,
knowing that internet will save
us from ourselves, but the longer
we stare into that flat abyss,
the more we disappear.
She squirms, arches belly up,
scratch me, love me, don’t forget me.
Eyes and eyelashes, wise and long,
this one-year old furry seer, knows
if you are kind. Sometimes I ignore her
paws clawing at the sky, asking important
questions. How can you focus on
anything more than me, than this
moment, do you see me, really see me?
Here I am, I love you. Where’d you go?
Did you forget?
You are me too.
if anybody asks
I tell them that each month
I add one minute of meditating
to my days, accumulating silence
like pennies in a jar
until the day I’m