The cat sits under pink flowers

 

The cat sits under pink flowers.
The cat sits in sunlight.
The sunlight blurs like golden dust
blowing between her and me.

Her white-gold fur melts into wind,
into light and dust.
It blurs. It becomes pink flowers.

I no longer know where each one ends.
I no longer know where I begin.
Am I beside the cat?
Or is the cat
(alive or dead,
or merely imagined) –
is she inside me?