The white cat whistled in the wind,
A remnant of what once was
And viewed her home: solemnly, intangible
Through the clouded window by the silver birch.
The birds, unmoved by her non presence,
Tittered and flitted through her
As she gazed into the living room.
With as much fondness as a cat can muster,
She stared and thought of how
This was her chair or that was her bowl,
Or that was the woman who opened the door and called
Some kind of sound that was at once strange and familiar
Almost as though it had once belonged to her.