THIS CAT
Our cat sits on a wooden seat
And looks at me,
As I look at him.
What he sees is someone who feeds him,
Someone growing slower,
Shakier.
What I see is a cat as sweet as an apple,
As lovely as a snowflake
Or a feather.
When he moves, uncurls, twines around
As if his bones were made of water,
A great smooth engine purrs into life,
So that this cat,
If he wanted,
Could lift the world up on his paw,
Use it as a ball to play with.
Even when he grows old,
Slower,
Shakier,
His eyes blurred and filmed with age,
He will still be lovely.
Each time I see our cat,
I am thankful
For the generous hand of love.
©Gwen Grant
Poems by Gwen Grant 