The Feeding of a Stray Cat
By Dave
She came — a shadow — slight and spare,
With neither name nor plea —
A whisper curled beneath the stair,
Too soft for eyes to see.
I brought a bowl, I laid it low,
Where moonlight kissed the floor —
And though she fled — she’d come,
I know —
Each dusk, and nothing more.
She wore the cloak that silence weaves,
With hunger at her side —
Her footfalls light as brittle leaves
The autumn winds would hide.
No song she sang, no trust she gave,
No thanks for meat or crumb —
Yet something stirred — a small, slow wave —
Each time I saw her come.
I knew her not by fur or name,
But by the ache she bore —
The kind that wanders just the same
Back to a stranger’s door.
And still I leave a bit of bread
Where hope might chance to be —
For even what the world calls dead
May dine — and live — with me.