There is never rest, or
if not peace, the absence of pain.
The limbs of grey fur are warm, though
the image of death, and may rouse
from their lumpy symmetry to
prowl into the middle distance.
The green girl may descend the mountain
in the light of the beggar and the cat
her warmth and her intrusion,
the grey limbs may rouse,
and sip milk and purr,
a vibration of the hand,
the ear, of the mind, in shadow,
next year, grey ghost, returning.
Are we not our memories?
When young, we are our dreams.