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.
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:)
Delete