Autumn

Autumn
by Ronald G. Auguste

I call it Autumn, since it's streaked with gold
In many quiet hues throughout its coat.
Its eyes, sweet amber, lustrous to behold,
Make it the sort of cat on which some dote.
Its purr is a soft sigh of silver song.
So gentle is the manner of its gaze,
It fills your mind, so you'll remember long,
When ills and bitter things assault your days.
It's such a silent beauty -- nimble paws
Transport it over fences, yard to yard;
Yet, still, it does not trespass -- breaks no laws;
And holds none of its kind in disregard.
Autumn, though not that season, is so fine,
Compared -- for any reason -- man is swine....