If I can do nothing more,
I go out the back door and sit on the steps
where the tuxedo cat rubs my leg
and I look for the holy.
If you call it life or god or mystery,
it’s ok; it’s all in the Thesaurus of Sacred Things.
When trapped in the grimace of chaos
and pain, I can kneel here in the grass
at night amidst the sinuous dance
of moths or night-wing bats, especially
when the moon is a full bowl of holiness,
or maybe I smell the first rain after drought
bedding down in the cricketing field, and then I know.
Meet me there where we can do nothing much
together but think and breathe holiness and
pet the white-whisker cat.