Beginning

she held a little funeral for it
in the back yard
the back yard, which had been overgrown
since the brief rains, and now
piebald with burnt patches
but all long, and tangled
by the work of spiders, and wind
like the story-telling pelt 
of a once-liberated house cat
matted & greasy on your doorstep,
with a layer of dust,
calling you forth from work in the kitchen.

in the kitchen,
where mind turns inward 
from the pressure of clutter,
yesterday's dishes from the prep
of a large pot of beans that will 
sustain you now for days or weeks
jostling elbows with the cutting board
of this morning's breakfast, leering
& catcalling at the clean plates
& wineglasses of two nights ago--
ill at ease in the frail safety
of the dishrack. 

                          the cat
calls you forth
into presence, and the act

of service. the kitchen
is still cluttered, plus one fork & bowl
for cat food but you walk
through the patch of sunlight 
in the east side of the house 
to the rear sliding glass door & exit
onto the back patio, out
into the embrace of honeysuckle from 
six yards away.

she cleared the backyard of its 
overgrowth & held 
a little funeral for what 
had passed away.