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.
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,
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,
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.
© 2017 Gwen Grant