While walking through a wintry town
of weavers’ crackerbox houses of stone,
all with carved shutters and panes of wood,
I noticed I was far from alone.

A tabby cat sat on a sill
and looked at me with wet jade eyes.
I asked her what she for Christmas wills,
what sandy claws might bring as a prize.

She winked a blink as slow as tar
and gave me a sideways smile.
All she wanted was a door ajar
to sneak into with all her wiles.

Why yes, I opened the door for her,
and scarcely had she gone inside
that she returned with a satisfied purr
and said that she’d changed her mind.

This cat will do as she may please —
She’s a feline, fickle as a winter breeze.