Saturday, November 14, 2015

Squeaky

Eleanor didn't sleep on me much last night. I think she was keeping Moby company. All is well, or on the way to being well.

So, dance in squeaky shoes and laugh.

2 comments:

Fresca said...

I came across this poem by Mary Oliver this morning, and while it's not exactly parallel, it reminded me of Moby's ordeal. (And we know DEATH is fond of cats).

I couldn't find it anywhere online to link to (it was only published last month), so since it's short, I'm putting the whole thing here.

I AM PLEASED TO TELL YOU

Mr. Death, I am pleased to tell you, there
are rifts in your long black coat. Today
Rumi (obit. 1273) came visiting, and not for
the first time. True he didn't speak with
his tongue but from memory, and whether
he was short or tall I still don't know.
But he was as real at the tree I was
under. Just because something's physical
doesn't mean it's the greatest. He
offered a poem or two, then sauntered on.
I sat awhile feeling content and feeling
contentment in the tree also. Isn't
everything in the world shared? And one
of the poems contained a tree, so of
course the tree felt included. That's
Rumi, who has no trouble slipping out of
your long coat, oh Mr. Death.

--Mary Oliver

gz said...

a lovely squeaky dance for Moby. good for Eleanor