Invitation

by
 Diane E. Dees    

 

We watched you—the elderly tabby cat and I—

from the kitchen window:
Lumbering into the yard,

Giant stepping stone adrift among the pines,

you chose a spot by the narrow little afterthought of wild garden--

host to blue salvia, golden daylilies and scarlet gladiola.

An audience of chickadees, cardinals and squirrels

cheered you on as you released levered hind legs

like oars in a green gelatinous ocean.

Your turtle face looked serene yet purposeful

as you dug wider and deeper than I could have imagined.

Before you, the mophead hydrangea blooms

nodded blue approvingly.

You grew shy when I approached with my camera,

drawing the prune of your face into your gladiator body,

but never missing your rhythm.

Once you'd dropped your eggs inside the nest,

you reversed the task, refilling the cavity

without once stopping to assess progress.

You retired to our front porch;

staring back at us through sunlit glass

while you rested, tired from an afternoon of excavation.

When you left, you fled quickly,

kicking up leaves and dashing myths.

We covered the nest with wire mesh,

to protect your children from raccoons and snakes.

We did the best we could,

but torrential Louisiana rains came

and washed away everything in and out of sight.

August arrived, but there was no breaking of eggs,

no emergence of wrinkled heads,

no gathering of shells.

Instead, the ancient ring-tailed tabby died,

leaving me alone at the window

with neither the comfort of the old

nor the excitement of the new.

I look at your picture while falling leaves obscure your tracks,

and hope that—when spring comes—

you will remember me and try again.