I met two feral kittens
at death’s door.
So ill
they could barely stand.

Eyes filled
with infection
lungs rattling.

Now
a year old
they follow me through
the rooms of the house
as if I am
their sun.

As if our home
is their earth.

They circle
around
me
hoping to bask in
my warmth.

They negotiate
my lap
trying to determine
who will lie
next to
my beating heart.

And in this small
house on the prairie
in our own
private
universe

we all
circle
around and around

we twist

then turn

and angle
our faces
toward
the beauty
of
love.