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.

Had a chat with my cat.
Now how about that?
She spoke with a twitch of whisker
and slow blinked her eyes to whisper
that she’s feeling quite content
to be in this moment.
For though she’s told me her life story
of all the times she’s been crowned in glory
by defeating her toy mice —
which is really not a vice —
it’s in the here and now
with no sweat upon her brow
that she’s glad to becuddle me
and from worry be wild and free.
Watch her fur belly rise and fall
and her purr keeps me in her thrall
as I scratch her fluffy chin
and feel peace spread within.