Your Sunday Poem

This charmer was sent to me by a friend.  She noted, "I was going through some papers, found this poem which was read at my Mom's funeral.  She loved her cats."  It's by A.S. J. Tessimond, who I will have to Google, and is really wonderful.  Set out the saucer of milk and enjoy.

Cats

Cats, no less liquid than their shadows,
Offer no angles to the wind.
They slip, diminished, neat, through loopholes
Less than themselves; will not be pinned
To rules or routed for journeys; counter
Attack with non-resistance; twist
Enticing through the curving fingers
And leave an angered empty fist.
They wait, obsequious as darkness,
Quick to retire, quick to return;
Admit no aim or ethics; flatter
With reservations; will not learn
To answer their names;
Are seldom truly owned.
Cats, no less liquid than their shadows,
Offer no angles to the wind.