This little one, neatly made, quick to jump to a high place, either for resting or vantage, or with tiny paws flip a blanket over her own curved, snuggling back: agile, heat-seeking, comfort-loving, curious, adept … changeable moment to moment, yet she is definite, predictable: creating her life with both whim and established habit.
A fine intelligence shines from her eyes. She is knowing, sums me up every moment. She is wise, accepting my limitations: I’m only human. She is demanding, knowing her due; miaowing bugle-call loud when she needs: food / a clean litter tray / scritches and cuddles (reasonable demands, I say).
Tit for tat. When I stroke or hug her, she purrs deep, nestles in. I kiss the top of her dainty, wee head. One afternoon, lying down for a nap, I rouse to find her licking my hair just where it edges my forehead – grooming me, like one of her kittens.
The smallest cat I ever had, and the sweetest-natured, she is nevertheless queen of her domain. I only live here.
We both know my function: to care. We both know hers: to be, thereby to delight.
Written for FridayWritings #191: Small but Beautiful, at Poets and Storytellers United. I've also attempted to write this as a flash poem: a form of prose poetry characterised by brevity and intensity. (My first attempt. Not sure I've pulled it off.)
