The Cat's Mourning

HAT'S UP, Cat?
You always liked to be out
but now you go more often
despite the oncoming cold.
You sleep in a pile of leaves near the door,
you leave a flattened impress when you wake,
and if the postman smiles
and the neighbors look askance
I do not care
for I left them there for you.

Are my caresses so displeasing?
Do I try to play the wrong games?
Is the food somehow flat and tasteless
when opened by my hand?

Or have you decided
to be the first to greet Her return,
to rub against her leg in greeting
and receive a scratch behind the ears
before my wild embraces preclude you?

Ah, Cat, if that were possible
I would pitch a tent beside you,
we would keep each other warm,
I would rely on your nighttime vision
and you on my daylight wakefulness.
But it will not
Poor beast, what can you know?
Yet Love sounds through your inarticulate meow
far stronger
than all the efforts of my human tongue.