As the bright leaves of fall reinvent the world for a short time before winter descends, it is time to celebrate the beauty and mystery of cats.
Familiar
You might
assume I am just along for the ride
but without
my delicate weight her broom
would lose
its balance and flap,
willy-nilly,
across the sky.
Nights, I
sit, idly mousing the kitchen
floor while
she combines, in her leaky cauldron,
powders:
faery dust, newt’s eye, oil of poppies,
trying to
conjure pixies, nixies, naiads.
Often I am
bored and bathe myself twice
turn around
clockwise and become a fur ball
musing on
my literary ancestors: Geoffrey,
White-faced
Simony, Pangur Ban --
or commune
with my obsidian likenesses
guarding
Pharoah’s fathomless tombs.
My tribe is
undervalued, our lot plain:
saucer of
milk, warm place to sleep
a few small
fishes, a door
for going
in and out:
Small
payment for the way
I ride the
foot of her bed
like the
prow of a skiff on the Nile
and part,
with my copper-backed orbs
the dark
curtains of night
making safe
the way
for my
mistress’s dreams.
cathy
larson sky 10/23/2012
