Noe, Noe! Cantemus Noe!
In the
foggy Seattle dusk
it was easy to ignore the
silent wending through our maze of legs
Neighbors
gathered, discussing the
somethings – and nothings – of daily life
She
seeking only warmth
nourishment, safety from predators
When the inevitable
question was carelessly loosed into the night
laughter couldn’t disguise the response –
No room at the inn.
In the light
she appeared barely grown and
grey as the mist from which she emerged
fur soft as silk yet so frail as to weigh nothing at all
Behind the washer, onto
a scratchy bed of shredded drawings
she, improbably, gave birth – one tiny, calico kitten
And so it began – a
relationship wonderfully uncomplicated
where trust was never questioned, and
love and laughter was simple, honest and complete.
Most of the past two decades, cat poems (or a cat slipped in)
have been part of our Christmas cards – tiny snapshots of the innumerable
ways in which they enlarged our lives. They remain guideposts for Christmas and its
message of infinite possibilities. (In Mem: Coco and Annie, aged 16 and 19.)
