Rik George writes

The Dowager

Orange-and-black-winged, two butterflies 
sip at the purple chives. The cat 
folds her tail and poses wise 
and solemn, a gray-furred dowager 
aloof from frivolous moths at their meat. 
You stroke her chin. She starts to purr 
and stretch, forgetful of her dignity. 
The dowager is still a kitten, 
for all her venerable years. 
I look, and in your eyes I see, 
though you wrinkle, your youth will sweeten 
your sour age. Your sight may fade, 
your hearing go, your memory weaken, 
but you’ll still want to watch the parade.

Cat and Butterfly -- Yabenaut