could that cat, that night,
that hospice encounter have been?
Friends and family had filled the house
of my dying patient when
she slipped in from the foggy night,
weaving through pairs of panted legs.
Poised, tail held high, lifted chin,
like she had lived there all her life.
She knew her way, bright eyes glowing
as she sprang like air
onto the bed,
gently hugging into a hollow
at the waist of the one she sought—
a gentle woman, petite, mumbling
to a daughter long since passed,
answered by soft purrs rumbling
nonstop throughout the waiting night.
Neighbors were asked, but not one
had ever seen those four white boots
beneath that shimmering black coat.
Her tender vigil appeared to soothe
as brow smoothed and lips stilled
until early morning’s gentle breeze
seemed to lift the last hint of life.
As though on cue she leapt
to the floor
and strolled out the door
into still-dark waiting mist.
~
“Cyrus” was painted in 1883 by Frederic Edwin Church
