Contemplative
as a wizened nun
he nestles in my arms,
regarding his universe
with a contented sigh.

Mandalas of dust motes
morph new designs
while phantoms unseen
(by me)
draw his unblinking gaze.

Head tucked in
and upside down
he sleeps
(and softly snores).
I cradle him,
humbled
by his absolute trust.

A study in serenity,
he instructs me
in the zen of being.

“It seems if there is a cat in the house of a poet at least one poem will be generated extolling the feline. This is my de rigeur cat poem.”  – Susan Dean Wessells