through whose eyes do i see?

the cats do not care

one tiny bit that it is tuesday,

nor does the  moon –

shining itself in part and in shadow,

over meows of greeting and hunger.

The rolling out of the garbage

is now a job done in the dark.

3 cats   –    the moon   –   and me:

each with eyes for seeing and skin for feeling

the cooling morning air.

Essays in queue waiting  to be graded – shall I number them all?

No.

What needs to be done will be done and instead I ask

whose eyes do I choose to look through in this moment:

skin,   fur,   or   rocky shell?

Should I add that there are also

eyes behind the veil  that

I cannot see, but I feel them

watching too?

Flying out –

I rub my growing, grey-tone belly,

taking in

what is below,

readying for

one last ripening

before the harvest.

Tags: Autumn, identity, Poetry