Patches, a small mostly white cat,

With black fur placed

On her body without artistic charm.

She lived under a summer cabin

And raised litter after litter

Of kittens

On mice from the woods.

In summer,

The summer people fed her well

And she lay happily in the sun.

In winter,

She took care of herself

But looked forward to

My offerings of food.

The summer people

Had her “fixed”

(and one of her daughters)

and so

she no longer needed

to frantically hunt for food

for her young.

Slowly she and I came to

Know one another,

And while she couldn’t quite

Let me pet her…

She would squirm happily

Just out of reach

On the wooden porch.

Her movements were always

Full of life and the love of it!

Then,

One day she came for her food

…but slower…

and I saw death standing

on the corner of the cabin porch.

The cabin stands

Cold and empty this winter.

As I walk by it

The snow falls silently

And the nights seem little longer.

 









*...the end of the story...about a month after I wrote this poem, Patches appeared at our cabin door (about a mile from the cabin at which she lived) hungery and alive.  Then with cat wisdom she charmed her way into our cabin (warm and dry) and lives, where she lives today.