I turned seventy
and you gave me a giraffe,
and the cat gave me
nothing as is her
usual daily practice.
She did deign to sleep
beside me down by
my left knee when I
took my morning nap.
You've started the tea and our
next meal with the stray
from the bluff behind
our house looking on, rating
her prospects with us.
I can't tell you how
satisfied I am with things
as they are right now
my love, me with you,
knowing how it could have turned
that November day.
November 15, 2015 1:58 PM
Once again, that curious mix of the almost true with pure fiction. The boundaries I place around the real do slip and slide. I admit this could be irritating to some but, frankly, I do not care.
Written for Tess' Magpie Tales: Mag 294. Go there to see the fine work the gang produced this week.
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lovely!
ReplyDeleteSandra is right .. Your poem is quite lovely.
ReplyDeleteThis is delightful.
ReplyDeleteVisit Keith's Ramblings!
In the cats mind, her companionship was her birthday present :).
ReplyDeleteIn a word, intriguing...
ReplyDeleteas always, it's as much what you leave out as what you put in, isn't it. =)
ReplyDeleteI love this whether it's truth or fiction!!
ReplyDeleteThank you all for your comments. As ever, I appreciate responses.
ReplyDeleteSo very beautiful, so heart-warming, so hopeful.
ReplyDelete:)
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