Every Saturday,
My cats all say:
“Meow”
Yet, somehow
I always know just what they mean:
“Every day
In every way
Should be a catabration of the Feline Way.
Whether alley strays
Or pedigreed back to Nile days,
Fluffy, stuffy, agile leaper,
Or stalking skinny spotted creeper,
Sidling, sliding quite unseen,
We cats will all remind
Your leaky, roiling educated mind
Of this important primal fact:
We’re on this earth to play;
To dance the dance;
And live on edge
To balance ledge;
To proudly prance;
Embrace the chance.”
I myself now fully see
That play’s the very lovely thing
That trumps the conscience of a king.
Play brought cells together;
Gave the bird the birdish feather;
Dressed the cat in fur so fine;
Pulled us out of brackish brine;
Taught us to fly
And scan the sky.
Life only grows
Because life knows
It’s play that shapes
The Tree of Life
To ever-growing subtlety
Orchestrates cacophony
Of howl, meow, of chirp and roar
Into Life’s organic symphony
The dance of crawl and swim and soar.
Indeed, each day is Caturday.
It’s like that every single day:
Across the world’s vast expanse,
Life is laughing, Joy, and Dance.
A Suddenly Springing Something
The Walkabout Diaries: Life Will Find a Way
petersironwood 
A wonderfully catophonous poem!