Morning

You miss your cat again,
your tears fall into the empty space
that everything good tumbles into.
You see her saying goodbye
in the sun, on the grass,
on Tuesday morning.

The face you remember
is now a mask,
much like yours
only upside down,
she is smiling and warm
and your mouth bends
like a willow.

Meet her in the forge of this day,
where a bluebird has flown into the window,
fox is easing through brush,
crow is tasting the newborn air,
and the holly brushes heaven.

Set down your masks.
Ask her what you look like,
just for the hell of it.