Sasha
Today, snow day
The drifting white piles past the windows,
leaving shadows across the floor
My kitten watches flakes
flying
fascinated.
She's never known snow--
born inside, in a small cardboard box
warmed by her mother's rough tongue
and now, her eyes dance in wonder at the blizzard
that I dread shoveling
and that children will pounce in,
and throw at each other
and make shapes out of
while Sasha watches.
My kitten has never known the cold
except through an open window
air comes in through the screen;
the freedom of birds and squirells entices her
from beyond,
but she turns around in a circle with her feet,
and plops her body down, licking the carpet dust
daintily, thinking about kitty-things.
She's never known love,
nuetered and neutralized from a very young age
hormoneless, moodiness-less, desireless.
She lays on my chest with the innocence of an eternal child
never to have her own children
frozen in time,
watching life from behind a winter window,
her green eyes flicker at the waving of the wind
as if to say,
"Maybe this time I'll go get it?"
And then, as though going through the motion
of playfulness, of feline ferocity
has appeased her appetite for the prey,
She gingerly puts her head down on delicate paws,
like she never wanted to chase
that tempting wind anyway.