ELYA BRADEN
__________________________________________________
In the Breath of Non-doing
Silent, this silver streak of rippled
motion, no collar, no bell she won’t claw
from muscled neck, her rare trills
like unnamable bird song. Soundless
as she burrows into the soft shore
of my belly, gliding across night’s lake
on my skiff of dreams. Fur-hushed landing
as she leaps to windowsill, to bookshelf,
to cabinet. Whispered nail scrape as she paces
back & forth, plotting her return to earth. I feather,
chime her into frenzy, fling small cloth mice across
the room to see her hurdle into prey & capture.
Why wild her when I could still the bell
of my own hurry rush rush, ring
in the breath of non-doing & curl
around her small body sprawled senseless
each afternoon on my green couch, fall
into the dark well of silence?