Quietly warmth tracks the floor
and stops at the closed door
then turning in circles against the glass
it fastens on the cat's paw
as in lazy winter careful
she backs away slowly
stealth a cunning part of grace
her pink tongue licking nothing.
And I think of strawberries
and the warm roads of Oxnard
delicately sweet with juice
running my chin
catching the lace of summertime.
When longing pounces on the warming air
and catches flashes of light tripping in
like a dormant mood gone to wind
as chimes open the sky
and it would seem that all can hear
the first drop fall
on the trembling measure of time.