Waking Honesty
Our cats are not like us. They sleep the sleep
Of focused soldiers, dreaming dreams that we
Would never dare. Cats’ drowsing isn’t deep
But deep enough. They live hyperbole
Or, at the least, intensity. They curl
Around, around, and then their tooth and claw
They settle into rest. Their bodies furl
Conviction into softness. Cats withdraw
To dozing secrecy. Their secrets turn
More secret even, secrets wrapped in calm,
And cathood’s peace is like a shaded fern
Awaiting spring. Cats’ resting is a psalm.
..Their snarls, their making love, their waking yawns
….Lack falseness and are true like Arctic dawns.
~ Phillip Whidden