Goodbye to Mira the Cat
One small soul with a big heart went out on July 31, about 5:30 in the evening. Mira, our yellow male cat (11 years old) died after 5 years of on again, off again bad health. He had a rare blood disease that finally became a brain tumour. He was in no pain until the end. Our daughter called him the "miracle cat", he came back so many times.
In the evenings, he followed me to the cabin where I write. A constant companion, he liked to sit among my manuscript pages and lick the various rocks I'd collected for him. We buried him on the sidehill behind the house, where he often hunted during the day.
Right now, his sister, Jake, is sitting beside my computer, vying for my attention.
THE BEST DAYS
The best days don't begin
with grand pronouncements.
It's when the cats are content
and the house glows
like the inside of a honeycomb.
Jake sleeps stretched out on the floor
while the big male, Mira, watches her
and preens. He has been something
wholly given to me, like true love,
or a gift you didn't expect or deserve.
The best days begin
when something inside begins to glow
like the light from a single cell.
(Copyright 2004, 2007, Allan Cooper)
In the evenings, he followed me to the cabin where I write. A constant companion, he liked to sit among my manuscript pages and lick the various rocks I'd collected for him. We buried him on the sidehill behind the house, where he often hunted during the day.
Right now, his sister, Jake, is sitting beside my computer, vying for my attention.
THE BEST DAYS
The best days don't begin
with grand pronouncements.
It's when the cats are content
and the house glows
like the inside of a honeycomb.
Jake sleeps stretched out on the floor
while the big male, Mira, watches her
and preens. He has been something
wholly given to me, like true love,
or a gift you didn't expect or deserve.
The best days begin
when something inside begins to glow
like the light from a single cell.
(Copyright 2004, 2007, Allan Cooper)
posted by Al Cooper at 9:24 PM
1 Comments:
This is a beautiful poem, Allan. I wanted to share a poem honoring what I've been sharing with Mortimer our canary... If I'm reading or watching, say, C-Span in the front room, he'll make "tuning" notes or I will, and then we'll carry on an exchange, and I'm convinced it's the sky we're singing to, as well as the music itself of course, and each other, and the other birds (two finches and an incredibly participatory parakeet)...
Late Afternoon
The first trees rustle in wind far off.
In the summer, a blue jay sweeping in
from a nearby rhododendron would leap over,
cry, & fly to the back.
We learn what we need, like the tall grasses
& sunflowers bent in September near our houses.
The canary & I strike up key notes.
It’s praise for the open sky we share.
After practice, a violinist watches
old cedar parts of the mind.
The birds & I are part of him.
The canary is a "roller" who explores melody and then ends with a long, rolling trill, so I do that, too, using double-tonguing we used for trombone-playing, back when...
Jim
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