Plahm opens with a declaration—”George Knows / What is beautiful”—then detours through an unexpectedly dark corridor: “A funny thing happened on my way to the / Mortuary.” This juxtaposition of feline wisdom and mortality sets the poem’s stakes immediately. The middle section is a love letter to the Muse, cataloging her gifts (“not just a physical presence, / But a voice”) with characteristic Plahm gratitude. But the poem’s emotional center belongs to George, the “wild, wily orange cat” whose simple needs—a belly scratch, a nose bump of recognition—become templates for authentic connection. The full moon “over the stones of remembrance” introduces death’s proximity, yet the speaker pivots toward defiant vitality: “I’ll live to see another. / Sunrise.” The closing stanzas achieve a kind of domestic mysticism, braiding George’s purr with the Muse’s voice as twin forces “Giving birth / To reality / Tomorrow’s / Sunrise.” The final maxim—”George knows, / Something, / We are still learning”—positions the cat not as pet but as spiritual teacher, one whose wisdom operates below language in the register of presence, warmth, and unquestioning devotion.

A quietly powerful meditation that earns its emotional resonance through accumulation rather than grandeur. The mortuary opening is a masterful tonal gambit—introducing death’s shadow so George’s simple presence can dispel it. Plahm’s decision to position the cat as oracle rather than mere comfort animal elevates the poem beyond pet tribute into something approaching philosophy. The fragmented line breaks (“His / Mystical / Purring a / Reality”) create a breathing rhythm that mimics the cat’s own contented cadence. The braiding of George’s purr with the Muse’s beauty in the closing stanzas achieves genuine synthesis—animal, human, and spiritual love as a single sustaining force. Minor weakness: the poem’s middle section drifts slightly, with “How did? / That happen? / I don’t know” feeling less precise than the surrounding imagery. The transition from Muse to moon to George could be tighter. But the closing lines—defiantly alive, grateful for another sunrise without a tombstone—land with quiet authority. A poem that understands wisdom often arrives on four paws.