We’ve always had cats in our house. The first one was jet black
and ruled our Keeshond puppy with a paw of iron. The dog
used to wriggle past the kitten, too afraid to stand up and walk.
Our present cat is quite old now yet can still leap up onto the fence
as if the height is nothing. It’s magical to watch. This cat has given
us so much pleasure with his beauty and grace, that I wrote this poem
in his praise.
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 