Meeting

My cat is so fluffy,
my fingers get lost.
Her eyes are golden
and drink me in
as she pushes her back feet
against my bare foot,
claws out just gently
while I scratch her jaw
and she smiles with
closed eyes and perked ears.

What if I woke and she were hairless?
Why I would love her still
for the heart is not made of hair.
And if her eyes were occluded forever
with milk she could not taste
I would love her, for I know
that love is more true to feeling
than it is to vision.
And if she were rabid by some awful chance
and bit me
I would love her,
because the mind 
is a temporary thing
and not liable for its infections.
And when she dies I will love her
since this body is just one waystation
that the soul rests in for a while.

So I am left now to wonder
what it is I love her for
as the morning passes gently
in the fluttering of sparrows.
They chirp a greeting, a welcome,
the simple apogee of any spirit's arc.