Tribunal

For what must I answer, after?

Will the small spirits
of mice accuse me from
the ghost of my cat’s mouth?

Will the kind words I did not
speak assemble, invert, indict?

What of ingratitude, of wasted
love? How will they prosecute me?

It’s all true:  every harm
I allowed, returned, initiated.

What shall I say, after,
in my defense?

That even my wastrel
heart thrilled at the song
of late-arriving wrens,

marveled at the artistry
and utility of feathers,

bowed to the mystery of
night, fog, storms,

loved the delicate
cups of mice ears,

grieved their perfect paws,
blessed them down
to their tiny knuckles?

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Tags: cat, creative writing, death, harm, mouse, poem, poetry, responsibility, spirituality