The Cats at the Window

Four quiet souls upon the sill,
watch amber leaves drift, slow and still.
Each flutter writes a fleeting rhyme,
a whispered measure marking time.

The birches shed their golden skin,
and autumn breathes its hush within.
Soft paws press close to glass and frame,
as nature plays her tender game.

No sound but rustle, sigh, and fall,
the world grows smaller, hearts grow tall.
In every leaf that spins and dies,
the cats see seasons in their eyes.

And when the dusk begins to creep,
they guard the warmth, they dream, they keep
the memory of each tumbling hue,
as poets do, when love feels new.

A late poetic awakening came to me at ninety-one, after a lifetime in the sky. Years as a Marine aviator and Pan Am captain shaped my view of the world, and now I am grounded in quiet hours with my four cats.

Roy Everett Butler Books
A quiet place for poetry, memory, and renewal.