I wake up because of my cat.
She has leapt into the sill of the window
to peer out at the blue, squabbling birds.
I'm blinded by a single ray of sunshine
which has forced its way past the curtains.
I rise up, all muddled from dreams.

Oh, why does he still laugh in my dreams?
I cross the room to pet the cat,
but she slinks away behind the curtains.
Evasive ... like him, I think, and stare out the window.
Not a cloud in sight. Another day of sunshine.
In the yard, the worms are breakfast for the birds.

He sent me an arrangement of roses and bluebirds.
My pet stole the feathers off them like time stole my dreams.
I sigh and move into the hallway sans sunshine
followed by the hungry shade of my cat.
In the kitchen there's a smaller window
where the light steals through thinner curtains.

He once asked me about such things as curtains,
if I wanted the ones with the stripes or the birds.
I didn't care then. It was our window.
We could hang threadbare sheets and still have our dreams.
I'm rudely reminded I have neither by the cat.
I set her plate down in the little patch of sunshine.

We met in fog and frost, never sunshine.
They hung about us like heavy grey curtains.
We often talked about getting a cat.
I lean over the sink and spy on the raucous birds
who have now scattered the millet much like my dreams.
They startle when I bump my forehead against the window.

I had waited, hopeful, all night at the window.
I hated, dreadfully, the next morning's sunshine.
The phone call confirmed closing night on our dreams:
exit stage left, no encore, draw the curtains.
I step out into the brightness to refill the feeder for the birds.
The dark pane beyond reveals just the green eyes of my cat.

Once as curious as a cat in a window,
and as busy as the birds in the sunshine,
I'm content now shrouded in the curtains of unresurrectable dreams.