The Truth

my language, I tell

the truth. A cat

in a white collar,

like a priest with calico

fur, walks across the dead

grass of the yard, and out

through the white fence. The sun’s

strong, but the colors of the lawn

were washed out by the winter, not the light.

February. Stained glass window of the house

next door takes the sun’s full brunt.

It must look spectacular

to the neighbor in my head,

a white-haired woman with an air

of dignity and grace, who

through pools of the intensest

colors climbs the flight of stairs.

I’ve never seen it,

but I know it’s there.