THE CAT’S MEOW

 

The whistle of the wind

Between the carpet and the doorsill.

 

A trembling branch of yew,

Ripe with undripped rain.

 

The bark of a dog, in a fog that is dark

With smoke from a neighbor’s chimney.

 

Outside, you stared at the door;

When I let you in, you growled.

 

The wind is high enough to caper

Through the leafless treetops,

 

And low enough for you to crouch

And sniff it under the door.