The Quest-ioning

I remember the old men
of so long ago,
sighed the Poet.

The old writer in Upstate New York,
the old sugar plantation engineer
and the farmer from Chico.
relegated to back rooms
of their children’s houses,
alone and unloved.
They enriched my life
with wisdom, patience and silence,
and I loved them
and their love for me,
so long ago.
I miss them still.

I am now old myself,
and I wonder
will someone come
to find me?

I am now old,
whispered the Cherry Tree,
shivering in the cold winter wind.
They all loved the shade
of my rich green canopy
sheltering them from the heat
of the summer sun,
my fruit plentiful for their taking,
that last summer.
Even birds no longer come to visit,
My branches have become brittle
my leaves less plentiful
though still greening.
I hear the saws of gardeners
next-door
and I am afraid.

Don’t be sad,
cried the White Cat,
I love you.
Everyday I will come
and comfort you,
snuggle with you,
lick your hands with little kisses,
till it’s time to go.
I am an equal opportunity lover.
It is my nature.