I watch her step between the lavender,
Each paw placed like a question with no answer,
And stop where sun has pooled against the wall,
Then fold into herself, to govern all.

Her eyes half-close, yet one ear still attends
A vigil that neither starts nor ends.
Not here nor gone, just barely passing through—
She holds the garden with her, the way dreams do.

I shift my weight; the floorboards groan beneath.
She does not stir. She does not clench or seethe.
When did I last want nothing but to be—
No clock, no list, no future calling me?

I watch her still. She does not know my name,
My debts, my dread, the ruins of my aim.
She knows the sun. She knows the warming stone.
She knows enough. She leaves the rest alone.

I cannot hold the stillness she has found.
My mind returns; it circles round and round.
And yet, in this, I feel a strange release—
I am not built for her unbroken peace.

I came here tangled. I will leave the same.
But for this hour, I had no one to blame,
My list, my dread—I watched her breathe, that’s all.
The sun moved slow across her lazy sprawl.

I’ll go soon. She won’t notice that I’ve gone.
The garden and the light will carry on.
But something passed between us, unconfessed—
I watched her live. She let me be her guest.

The day will end. The cat will find her way
To other patches, other walls, other play.
And I will go, and I will not return.
But I was here—her stillness mine to learn.