Making the bed,
I pull a corner of the blanket
only to find a white silk rose 
in the closet and another 
by the rocking chair. The cat 
has picked flowers.
I tuck them back in their basket
and think of linden trees in bloom, 
about cats, and about small bees.

Is this the last line of a story
solid as an empty chair?
The linden tree, those bees,
and a tired heart, I find
Tao in my coffee, in the cat,
and the bees, all a story within.