Through my dreams the cat was leaping,
Calico patchwork, like the old quilt
beneath which I laid, silent, sleeping
as childhood memories brimmed and spilt.
Hind-legs thrusting, her forepaws splayed
to catch herself after a bold spring;
gentle in grace, yet deadly made
by the forge of Life, that ruthless thing.
Beautiful motion, artful form,
instinct and cunning made manifest,
yet snuggling, purring, friendly, warm,
her claws retracted, and nose to chest.
To think a killer could be kind
and want to cuddle close to a heart;
to think of all we leave behind
as Life plies its slapdash-patterned art.
The patches jigsawed together,
a creature of chaos and of laws;
temperamental as weather
and yet smoothly playing on her paws.
Leaping! Sleeping! Wild as a child
forgone to the needs of ringing clocks,
bound to a moment, reconciled
with its self-apparent paradox.
And so I dreamt of her patterns,
a feline form from out of my past
who, just so, leapt and slept at turns
like childhood joys that pass by too fast.