After months

After months

The church bells ring at eight here,
or seven forty nine
if lost track of time,
only on Fridays.
I am unsure why.
I rub the cats belly
with bare toes as she lays
gray-sprawled where a sheepskin
could be dropped beside the bed,
the pit of unseasonable silence,
my pit of unseasonable silence,
the nest my nan now calls hers.
I place a hand on that sage pillow
while she reads to the child next door,
long for where my head fits,
where my body unfurls as ferns,
where I am ejected again.
Stew in the anticipation
of another evening.
The cat and I
listen to the church bells,
wonder how many more rotations
could be ours.