She poses on the couch
our old cat, Circe, reading
our emotions as she sits.
She waits for sun to shift
around the heavens
and bring the warmth
to her arthritic hip.
At noon she likes to
walk around the garden
and start the gossip
running through the birds.
All afternoon she likes to
sleep in closets
and leave a patch of gray
too soft for words.
Her evening she spends
in sweet contentment
purring underneath
my fingertips.
At night I go to bed
she’s right there purring
and singing me to
dreams of longed-for trips.
If it’s my lot to
circulate in heaven
after I have left
this mortal track
I know I could do
worse than have
as my gray nurse
my Circe, kitty cat.
