Oliver

 There is a feral cat who lives beyond my fence. I have seen him flitting around for years. Now, I am reaching out to him, with food, shelter, and petting.

His name is Oliver. My daughter suggested the name after Olivia Newton John died. He does not answer to his name. I usually just "meow" and he shows up, meowing in response. 

This is my third cat. I rescued an older male who was on death's door in New York's winter a number of years ago. My son named him Strider, after the hero from Lord of the Rings. Strider was in his final days, and, despite my attempts at keeping him on my lap, he chose to go it alone, in the depths of my closet.

Then, we adopted a sweet tuxedo named Gemini. Gemini was a meowing baby, found by our dog Sammy. Sammy's unusual howling made us go outside at night to see what was wrong. A small kitten, without mother or siblings, she became our indoor/outdoor cat who responded to evening calls to come home. Sometimes, I would look out of my second-floor bedroom window to see her neon eyes. She was very good at staying in the neighborhood, not venturing into traffic. Gemini sat, purring on my daughters' chests, feeling as at home in our house, as around our neighborhood. We took her to our next home, where she became an indoor cat in her later years. She was affectionate, and still sat on my kids' chests when they were willing to be still.

Gemini developed mouth cancer and could no longer eat, nor clean herself. She lost weight and retreated to the closet. My daughter, the one who loved her the most, came with me to the vet's office. We held her as she passed into cat heaven, hoping she might wait for us at the end of the bridge.

I pride myself to be a dog person. But these feline companions have meant so much -- to me and to my kids. My Oliver greets me every day with an echoed meow, leading me to the makeshift house I have made, waiting for his breakfast and dinner, and excellent ear scratching. Oliver is mine, as much as I am his.

Whose Garden Is This?

Up north, I used to know all the names of the trees, plants and creatures. 

No longer.

Tiny delicate lizards flit throughout my garden and house, stopping to nod a throaty hello before moving on. Black Racer snakes sit still until seeing me, and then flit away to who knows where. Freshwater turtles greet me at the canal running in back of my house every evening, knowing I am coming with delicious food pellets. The fish and ducks like them too.

And, speaking of ducks, my extended family of Muscovy ducks wait for me to come out of the gate with cracked corn in the mornings, and waddle toward my car whenever I pull into the driveway. It is nesting season, and a few mamas congregate with their peeping broods, along with the other ducks -- even the fat, red-faced, hissing males.

I plant small things I cannot name, and they grow quickly into giants. Bird of Paradise, Banana, Oleander, Bougainvillia, and Cordyline. I plant others that become pineapples, avocados and mangoes. My Hibiscus has taken over the western fence. It is wonderfully out of control.

I thought this was my new Wild West (Wild South?). Yet the large orange and green Iguanas planting themselves squarely in sunny spots, blinking and nodding at me, say, "This is, and has always been my garden, not yours."

Atlantic, North and South

 The water is often still here.

The same ocean, yet she has changed her clothes several times

Since I last saw her.

She was sassier then, chilly and wild with waves worn

Around her shoulders like cotton batting.

Here, she seems deceptively softer, smoother, warmer to the touch.

But do not anger the ocean goddess of the south. 

She will roil and spill onto your safety -- 

A howling spurned mistress

Churning until all her rage is spent.

Her northern self is steely and controlled -- 

Her voice still so familiar in my ear that she almost tricks me into believing,

"Oh, it's you! You followed me here to keep me company, 

still singing the sea song from my earliest remembering."

In the north, she pulls no punches, tells no lies

Offers solace to the island dwellers.

Here, in the south, she is Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde

Lulling me into a haze, until the moon is full and the offshore winds whip her

Into a frenzy.

Once, I thought I knew her allure.

Now, I am not so sure.