Epitaph to a Tabby
I hear the silence of stones
unspeaking,
heaped in a careful pattern on the fresh
damp mound.
I rooted you deep – to keep the fox from disturbing
the way I had arranged you.
I feel the saffron, late October leaves
shift softly
filling quiet spaces
between patterns of stone.
And you, tail shading eyes
curled gently around the stinging blindness
of your dying,
know nothing of my anguish.
In the chill of coming months, the cross
will look less new.
Page(s) 11
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