The wheel has been turning and a cycle comes to an end. With the ending of any cycle there is always some sense of loss with tears watering the ground for new growth to appear. So it is with this cycle of change but of all the things coming to an end, the most recognised and awaited often hits the hardest.
Puss-shka
A skinny waif came awaiting a way
into a home, hearth a place to rest a head
an independent spirit, stubborn, her self.
Always hungry with inexpensive tastes
and a super-furry soft expansive stomach
that perfectly vibrated a purry performance.
Occasionally happy to halt upon a lap
when cold, or clammy or ineffably kind
unless she was not and remained her self.
Always around unless elsewhere
exuding Mephistophelean ease
as she reappeared extemporanously.
In later years, introvert and internal
contemplating cautiously the nature of cat
statically she maintained a vortex of suspicion.
Of her names she cared not a whit;
the loving Puss, Pussy or Pushka
the mocking Fatso and Weepoo
or the universal Cat yet
She was Her Self.
Her self is no more, her vortex a hole
the space that is left, leaves little to console.
