Cory Fehlberg
A soft sun speckles the room
Where she lies dreaming,
Her arm curled around the cat.
They are of the same quickness.
What he seizes with a caper,
She finds with her eye—
Netted threads of insect wings,
A hamster's wistful ways.
She will wake soon,
A high flush on her face.
But now she sleeps a gentle sleep.
The sun is warm for her awaking.