felis botanicus catus

by julie kuck
(san diego, california)

The cat was a botanist, but this had been forgotten in the days of her illness, those long days which dried her out like a Saharan bouquet.

The cat was a botanist, who searched for smells of cut fresh flowers, reminding her of grassy play, among four brothers, wild and strong, outweighed by nearly a stone.

The cat was a botanist, who spent late afternoons, under the sheltering perfume of aging tomatoes, going to salsa in the dirt that was her occasional bedroom.

The cat was a botanist, who gloried in the exotic scent of eucalyptus, knowing it to be an aromatic from wild lands, inhabited by animals who boxed or lived in trees.

The cat was a botanist, who preferred sun-drenched wheat to glacial lichens, which could be used for batting practice but not for scent.

The cat was a botanist, who often sampled the petals of lilies, extending the Orient in delicate fragrance all the way to her nose.

The cat was a botanist, and in that way, she lived continental, yet stayed close to home, until the morning that she left while opening flowers, as she passed, in essence with the day.