The Cat On The Windowsill Poem by Robert Rorabeck

What difference does it make,
If people don’t get the chance to see
The efforts of another man’s work,
Or feel the warm relations of the hidden
Love with the woman,
The stranger living across the street-
Here, in the busy pastures,
Each life is a book,
And the wind is turning so many pages.
The insects awaken in the swimming seasons.
Upon earth, some organisms
For only a day get to read but a few lines:
A poem on the stem in the valley,
Soon withers with the snows,
As clouds like loud gentlemen trundle
In off the cold sea and stamp their feet,
But this is their house too,
So we must be courteous,
As everyone is trying to speak at once,
Not all can be recognized, though sometimes
Whispers are of the most important things,
Such as the field mouse burrows
Beneath the sodden hay,
Her children newly entangled with
The green and gold of awakening,
Their mouths speaking the hungry words
Which will last until the next incident
Of births and deaths,
And the cat on the windowsill slyly,
Eyes but slits, as the wind turns the windmills,
Cleaning herself, hears us all.