They see her clearly: an off-white angel
beside his low bed in the morning.
She’s not an angel, really, only
errant brushstrokes on a white wall
left there by a haphazard painter.
He rises, considers his keyboard;
feeds yesterday’s coffee grounds
to the lupine and zinnia.
The cat only sits and watches.
The world is white around them.
Sunlight intensifies, bathes the wall.
The brushstroke angel vanishes.
The breeze strokes the cat’s whiskers.
The lupine and zinnia bloom, sway.
RDP Tuesday ~ PURR