If I had a house to call my own,
I’d have a pathway made of stone.
I’d get a dog & call him Jack.
The side yard would be overgrown.
I’d have a pear tree in the back.
The kitchen would have morning sun,
& coffee on the stove, & one
sure cat that stretches & meows,
then sits, as silent as a nun,
to watch the rustling pear tree boughs.
& from the shade, the morning bird
would sing for Jack, the cat & me,
a gratitude for that tall tree
to close up every empty word.