My Comfort

A feathered intuition,
the mottled thrush returns
to the Winter forest where
the only leaves are
frost etchings.
The sensuous cat strokes my hand
at 3 a.m. with her whole body.
Has she come to me for love, or food?
And how will night come?
Solitary, homeless,
with her bundle of suns.
There is some black and silent generosity,
the motherhood of sod around a spring,
the groundless wound I grow out of.
My spine the imperishable
tree of death
dancing beyond the wind,
I shake stars down and all fruit free.
An axis I am
through the desert stone, Uluru,
to the moon's pearl island,
to Saturn, Pluto,
out through a laceration
in Andromeda's heart
to the intimate Unknown,
that purple bruise in eternity.
What comprehends me,
I cannot comprehend,
and this is my comfort.
I only know, there is a whirling,
therefore I am free.
I am uncertain,
therefore all things are possible.