Bards Ameowng Us

A cat with clawsies sharp and fine,
Sat by the window, lost in time.
He thought of poems, soft and sweet,
Of shadows where the moonbeams meet.

He pondered words that flowed like air,
Like gentle purrs or starlight's glare.
A flick of tail, a pause, a sigh--
A thought of birds that flit and fly.

He wrote of dreams on velvet paws,
Of chasing things with no real cause.
Of suns that warm the cozy ground,
And peaceful naps without a sound.

With every stretch and every blink,
His mind would race, his thoughts would sink--
To places where the soft winds play,
And every rhyme would drift away.
​
He’d curl up tight, his work complete,
Content in knowing his rhyme was sweet.
For poetry, he’d learned with grace,
Is found in every quiet space.