I dreamed again last night
of your surprise return.
There you were silently
moving in the darkness:
my cat, my cat who died
four or five months ago.

Your green eyes caught some light
like only cat's eyes do.
I reached for you and called
your name, waking my wife.
"What is it now?" she said
while I was stammering.

"She's here!" I cried. "It's Ding!"
I grabbed for you in tears.
You slithered beyond my reach,
circled wide, then approached.
Warily, you padded
across the bed to me.

"Look, look how young she is!"
I stroked you, dazzled by
your impossible youth:
graceful face, lean body,
no fatty pouch dangling
underneath your carriage.

I knew it was unreal.
You were an old, old cat
with one clouded eye and
with an arthritic gait,
and your soft, silver fur
is buried in the dirt.

Your imaginary
presence didn't linger,
and dry-eyed, I awoke--
still a bit amazed by
how deep the grief can be
of a man for his cat.