Petula’s morning meows
echo up the stairs, softly
awaken my mind, slowly
rouse my awareness.
Pierre curls close, gentle paws
pressed against me, as he falls
deeper into secret feline dreams.
His warmth lulls me back to sleep.
Petula sings a woeful
song of hunger, a dolorous
lament, a pitiable cry
for her morning meal.
Her insistent pleas, louder now,
do not compel me to rise,
though I stir, and sweet Pierre
begins to purr.
A full-throated aria
of ululant caterwauling
travels to the upper floor.
I sit up and orient myself
to this morning’s facts of life:
I’m divorced; we’ve sold the house;
this condo is the place I share
with two cats.
The climate is warming,
sea levels rising, the EU
breaking apart, and our mad
president believes he is king.
Life as we’ve known it is gone.
Yet the rosy light of dawn
opens my heart like a flower
adoring the new day.
Grace Richards grew up in the desert southwest, spent most of her life working in the TV and film industry in Los Angeles, and the last few most dramatic years teaching in Eugene, Oregon, where she has found her poetic voice. Her work has been published by SettingForth.org, Herstryblog.com, and in the anthology Magicking Language.
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