Eugene Bianchi and his cat Max
I wake up tired from broken sleep,
two cats in tow to the screened-in porch
to meditate on breathing while I still can.
Max inspects the water bowl,
Tony leaps to his favorite chair,
alerting me to soft mist over the river.
Birdsong seems muted as I pray
the watery blanket to stay
against the weight of heavier heat.
TV news echoes persistent
hardness in all the hot spots
from adolescent to military mayhem.
Is it my elder calling to cultivate
gentle breathing for my own peace,
and a small aid for a tormented world
that I love and mourn,
offering fresh balm
in my closing time?
