John I. Blair
Zanderís sleeping next to Grace;
Their backs just barely touch;
Their eyes are closed and quiet.
Out sticks one paw,
Slowly flexed from time to time;
The other curls toward his nose.
Warm air from the furnace,
Light breeze from the ceiling fan,
Music from a nearby room.
How soft his fur; how delicate his ears;
How peaceful is his pose
In this place he knows is safe.
How true the words
A home without a cat
Is just a house.
©2017 John I. Blair, 1/17/2017
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