My parents named her “Vashti”, but
We always called her Mittbee.
I offer no defense, except
That I was eight years old.

She was a shysome Persian, gliding
Silently through hallways –
An early introduction to
The life of one not-bold

A soft nocturnal creature who
Delighted in her freedom;
To stay away from everyone
And eschew all the fuss

A cat I now see as a being
That I can relate to:
The kind of creature that I am,
Who stays

Getting Up There

She’s getting up there now, in years;
She tracks in bits of ice and snow —
I see her on the carpet there,
And wonder where the years did go

When she was trotting by my side,
On morning walks across the fields;
A golden spirit, sweet and pure,
The life of love
And what
It yields