The Gates of Eden

The Gates of Eden

She’s left awhile her sleeping kittens
moving noiselessly, as it seems only cats can do
to sit with stolid, weary, stubborn patience
on the cold porch-boards outside the door.
Huddled, matted fur ruffled by the raw March wind,
her half-closed eyes are intent, unwavering,
fixed on the square of yellow light.

She’s old and bedraggled now, but her demeanor
is unmistakable. She was a house cat once, plain enough---
many litters ago, by the reckoning of her kind, and far away.

This man and woman are kind to her
feeding her good canned food, and providing
a cardboard box lined with straw to keep her warm,
sheltered from the cutting wind.
Is she just waiting for the pan of food?
Or, in alien beast-thoughts men can never fathom,
does she long for her paradise lost, mourn her fall from grace?

The old cat sits motionless by the door. Soon the man
will come with the pan of food;
then she will dart past him through the door
to curl up by the couch at the feet of the startled woman, purring,
basking in the old light and warmth,
and if only for one brief, shining moment, return to Eden.

c. 2000,
G. Jennings