The stray cat, who sits at the window
of my basement office each morning,
composed within her cloud of fur,
unnerves me, for I think she pities me.
Yesterday her eyes were like two wet pebbles,
imploring me to retreat and find a beach.
I was sure.
Today her eyes are two tiny sages,
breaking the private tension between us,
seeing into the naked reaches of me.
They ask me to dance at my desk at five in the morning,
shed the beguiling ghosts of ease,
awaken to the soul of another day.
Everyday has its own soul, say the little sages.
The scarlet welcome, the pale gold good-bye,
and in between, the blues.
And the greens and the reds.
Tomorrow, who knows about her eyes,
but they are becoming
all I watch for.
So it’s a black cat? And I read this on Friday the 13th?
But I have no doubt that cats pity us – with our insecurities and all.
And I also believe that no cat ever thought of itself as stray….
Good observations on cats Sam. Thanks you. (But I never knew you as superstitious.)