While walking my inner yard this sunny
morning, what with all these weeks of rain,
the grass is lushly green, over a foot high,
still wet but smelling absolutely marvelous.
I am on a hunt, a small harvest of sorts, for
the most succulent of viridescent, tender
blades of grass.

Oh, not for me you see, but for my big lazy
rotund, inside only cat, as his diet is bland
canned, or dry foods only, he turns up his
feline nose at chicken, or bits of beef from
the table, and so once a week I do faithfully
venture out to collect a big handful of chlorophyll
rich lawn grass that he dearly loves, and with
big eyes of intense expectation he watches my
every move from his perch upon the windowsill
of my living room, knowing as he does exactly
what I'm doing.

When I return inside with his prize in hand he
excitedly reaches up his front paws and dances
about, vocally meowing for his anticipated intended
fresh salad, which he always devours right down
to the very last grass green blade. Oh, for such
simple cat pleasures.

How I wish I could get even half that excited about
anything, anymore. But those days are long past.
Well on second thought, maybe at this point just
waking up every morning, is good enough.