One life is spent, the other spends us.
Rarely, they touch -
like a cat for the first time meeting itself in a mirror.
In the world, mirrors are few.
The slightest wind dissolves them.
In a life, the moments of recognition are few.
Consciousness does not hate or love, it neither grieves nor longs.
Walking and breathing are not its nature.
It is.
Yet something passes and ends, grows wet in rain and then dries.
and the small bowl of kibble empties into a delicate, spotted paw,
a tail slightly kinked, a preference for one windowsill
over another.
~ Jane Hirshfield