Lately my words are lazy Like my two languorous Felines whose sleep Is simply a subtler Form of movement. My words lie dreaming Of running. Their paws And whiskers quiver Perhaps in the midst Of a chase. Theyβre Warm from the sun On their bellies, turned Upwards, refusing To stand in a line of Neatly aligned metaphors. Dirt-simple and soft. My words turned quiet And mellow, no longer Hungry storms of ice. Theyβve shaken the Rain off their coats And smell of blooms. Their nails are long And unused. Contraptions for a war Drowned out by the Overgrown grass. If birds flock to branches Twittering, they merely Roll on their back, turning A blind eye full of sleep. An excess of love Has spoiled them. Gracefully obese, they feed Off the platters laid down At regular intervals Recalling the hunt as A bygone era of Needless toil.