Stares up at me. Its circle wide,
With vivid hues and facets fired
In far-off lands of old, the pride
Of the discerning feline's taste.
Adored of a fervor not known,
Each morn receiving more earnest
Kisses than any royal throne.
An object of keen scrutiny,
That dish, a gaze of fix direct
Noting any slight change at all
Day long, its keeper to inspect.
'Tis true, she haunted its corner
With a fidelity unsworn
In the strongest oaths under sky.
Never ever left it forlorn,
'Til now. Mighty though be feline
Will, there are greater forces yet
At work, as its keeper was called
Afield. Beyond all sunnings set.
I sigh, then, and do what I must
Each eve, heaping the dish lonely
High, for a new keeper to find
And make that hers, one and only.
© Jeff Stilwell 2012
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