Old Cat Lady
There is sweet sadness
when a cat of sixteen years
fails to show up on a familiar
doorstop. Only a ghost
in a block of sunlight
licking her paws, alights.
Shy Blondie
In the first heavy snow
of the season, perhaps
agitated by a full November moon,
Blondie,
lured by the call of the wild
so natural to her huskie breed,
ran away.
As I donned my winter garb, and
searched for her, all tracks were
obliterated by light, fleecy flakes.
Robins not yet flying south,
were noncommittal. A migration
of geese cried out overhead,
obliviously. Still, I knew that
Blondie would curl up shyly
at the back door once again.
On the third day,
I buried my arthritic hands
in the soft fur of her neck.
Large, almond eyes measuring love
looked at me, reassuring
all was with good reason.
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