We buried our beloved old cat
next to our bedroom window
under the sway of roses,
close to the roaming ivy
which will soon cover his resting place.

Moons later the night pulses with dim starlight
and the wind utters surly sighs of annoyance
as our house is solemn with sleep.
I alone perk up my ears
as the windowpane rattles
and a wobbly shadow floats out of the damp earth
with a rustling sound similar to a finger
running along the bristles of a comb.
Our cat purred like that.

When I glance up at our bedroom ceiling
painted yellow by crooked moonbeams,
fluid lines, curled like whiskers, spin
and their reflections spiral downward
to a spot on our bed
once reserved for our agile cat.
I reach for the black and white wisps,
now dancing imprints on the sheet,
swirling into a fur-ball.
But my touch comes away empty
and I wake with a vague longing.

As darkness melts
and pale sunrays crawl
into the spaces of the curtain,
daylight rearranges my thoughts
and an echo from the night reverberates.
I rush to the window.
In the dew-moistened bushes
raindrops glisten on whiskers.
I hear a beckoning meow,
a message from our old companion?