Lucky Feet

To the Cat God:

I hear your impish chuckle in the birds,

(there goes a loon anointed, raving stark,)

and though I can but feign to hear the words,

I like to think I understand the lark.

In whistle, chitter, twitter, full of mirth,

do I discern the essence of your voice?

The fold of evening’s gown upon the earth,

I dress it up as you, and I rejoice.

I would not give this illness up for gold.

I’d miss the host of angels, sound and angles,

refracted through the sixth dimension’s fold

to trumpet and attend your purple tangles.

I look about, and you are all I find

within the broken prism of my mind.

From a March hare