The little cat waits

The little cat waits

Wind howls through the cracks
between the beams and plaster,
and the little cat nods.

Beneath the table
where the cold’s curling fingers creep,
she lies and nods.

The stove is warm, her cushion waits,
but still she lies with folded paws,
facing the door.

Her eyes are fixed but not on things
of this earth, this room of spring draughts,
on things we cannot see.

The little cat lies with folded paws,
waiting for the sign that only she will see,
and she will follow.