In which we finish up the holiday stories with a new poem

 Red Cap, a poem

 There will be snow by morning.

 Frozen grass crinkles under my boots and under 

the soft paws of the stub-tailed tabby cat who paces beside me

as we patrol our night farm.

 

Frost underfoot whitens his paws

and my red cap glows like a hearthfire

by the light of the bright full moon.

But we are mostly unnoticed.

Few hear our steps.

 

He waits as I pause beside the beehive,

we each tip our ears to listen for the sleepy hum within.

We each hum our answering tune as we pad away.

 

I check on chickens, snuggled together on their roost.

They do not wake when I peek in. They perch,

chuckling softly to each other as they doze,

dreaming hen-dreams of warm days and crisp beetles.

 

Inside the barn, the cow blinks as we enter,

her suckling calf asleep beside her.

Hay wisps fill the manger.

I dip fingers into her bucket, warming the water.

She sighs, chews, and blinks again.

The calf sleeps on.

 

The old mare waits patiently for me.

She nuzzles my coat, knowing

the carrot stubs in my pockets

are hers alone. 

I comb her tail, her mane, her forelock,

as I have done every night that she can recall.

When I finish and pat her neck she tugs the tassel of my cap.

 I laugh when she does it, as I always do,

and the cat twines around her legs

rumbling his gentle song.

 

We cross the yard to the farmhouse, cat daintily stepping where I step.

My footprints are scarcely bigger than his.

We enter the house, not rousing the dogs from their warm beds

by the fire. 

They know us.

 

The cat saunters to the kitchen

but I do not join him yet.

First, I climb the stairs, quietly quietly

To gaze at my family, each in turn.

 

The parents slumber deeply.

Two brothers dream, restless,

I hum to them and they turn and calm.

 

The youngest child is awake.  She alone of the family

Still sees me, still believes.

This child insists that my bowl be filled:

porridge, a bit of butter, some honey.

Her mother says that the cat eats the porridge.

Her mother once believed in me.

Perhaps she still does.

She does not see me anymore.

But she agrees to fill my bowl.

And she nods when

this child asks for a new knitted cap,

red, like mine, with a tassel, like mine.

She knits it herself, needing no pattern.

Someday

The child may no longer remember why it had to be just so.

But when she is grown

she will still fill my bowl, add the butter and the honey,

and put a small spoon beside it,

though the cat does not need a spoon.

The youngest child nods her head, closes her eyes,

and I descend the stairs to the kitchen,

where the stub-tailed tabby has eaten a bit of porridge and butter

leaving the honey portion for me.

I climb up a chair to reach the bowl and spoon.

I do not wish to drop the bowl and break it.

I have enjoyed this feast for seven generations of my family.

I cannot jump up

onto the table anymore.

 

The bowl licked clean,

the cat and I return across the yard

grass crinkling under our feet.

The setting moon glows beneath a chill rainbow of clouds

stretching our shadows tall before we join the shelter of the barn.

 

The stub-tailed tabby purrs the loft full of comfort 

and we curl into our spot in clean hay

surrounded by the smell of summer.

Below us: the cow, the horse, the night, all breathe easily.

There will be snow by morning.