If Life Was Like a Poem

A Feral

He is beautiful
Of charcoal and snow
A small scrap
With matted hair and scarred ears
He is timid, afraid
And fears the hand which offers him comfort
I am a threat
A possible additional injury
I am an asset, a hero, a friend
He is weary each morning,
And fleas from my sight if I step
Too close for comfort
He is skinny, thin and sickly
With long, slender legs
I wonder "does he eat?"
I place a bowl
Warm milk and wet fish
Hoping to feed him well
If just
To last another day
He hisses when I wait
Around the food for him to come near
So I place the bowl and return inside
Knowing in a few moments
I shall gather up the empty dishes
And see his shadow
vanishing from my sight
Slowly
As time passes
His hisses are softer
And he runs in fear slower each day
Eventually
The charcoal snow spends his time
Wearily, he waits
For his bowl
And now I get to watch him eat
From a comfortable distance of
Twenty feet away
Ten
Five
Now I am greeted with hello
A soft purr—the first I've ever heard
He is beautiful
I see that up close
Rough around the edges
But simply soft
I do not touch
For I fear
Removing the trust
I have so carefully gained
So I wait
Patiently
And just as before
Slowly
I pat his head
Once
Twice
Rub his chin, down his back
He purrs loudly now
At the sight of me
My hair has grayed, and skin wrinkled
And it has taken most of our lives
But now
Old feral lays softly in my lap
As I rock, vibrating with the sound of his soft content purrs
this is the peace
I had always wished for us
Two ferals living tamed