The Settling In

(The first six months)

She is running all over the house just now 

like a kitten, although she is eight –

well middle-aged for a cat – 

and has been a mother.

I don’t know what became

of her kittens. I don’t know why 

she won’t purr or miaow. Or who taught her

to cringe away if I even raise my voice.

‘You’re very expressive,’ I told her,

‘with your eyes and body, but if I’m busy 

I might not notice you want something. 

Either miaow, or mind-shout louder.’

She makes her own choices. Instead,

if I don’t immediately see her needs 

and respond, now she runs up to me,

tapping my leg with a gentle, insistent paw.

She’s a spectacular beauty. Maybe that

got her saved and homed, until at last

fate brought her to me. I think

we were meant for each other.

We have learned the right moments

for her to sit on me, and me to croon and pat.

We have learned to know when both of us, 

old girls set in our ways, need space.

Sometimes, now, I can pick her up

and hold her, and she doesn’t struggle.

(But I keep it brief.)  She likes me nearby

when she spends time outside. I oblige.

A wise woman told me she is my witch cat,

my new familiar. ‘You are equal partners,

not one overpowering the other.‘ I wait.

Perfect love and trust are almost here.

I'm linking this to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #313