We go back many years, he and I.
With a cat, one is never truly alone.
Like the old clock and candlelight,
He’s an irreplaceable part of this home.
There he sits, framed in the window,
A splendid prisoner of his master’s love.
Looking out on his own little world,
He yearns to hunt the cooing dove.
He owns this corner of my life.
His presence fills an entire room.
When the first snow begins to fly,
His profile and silhouette still loom.
Softly, the light has left the landscape.
The kettle whistles: It’s time for tea.
I rise to make my quiet escape.
But his amber eyes quietly follow me.
I settle down to four o’clock tea.
Above the smoky roofs, the snowflakes fly.
The winds sweep away the last autumn leaves.
The cat sees all with his saturnine eyes.
The cat will wake me every morning,
And rub his head upon my cheeks.
Fluttering eyelashes, a look of love warming,
He’ll stare at me as if he could speak.
Someday, he will go into that dark at last,
And become the darkness from which he came,
That ever-expanding territory of our past,
And somehow, my life will never be the same.