The cat
is lying in the sun
by the window.
Beyond the window
dead leaves are blown about
by a wintry wind.
Pots that had held
blooms of summer flowers,
are empty now.
The Dogwood, Crepe Myrtle,
and Rose of Sharon
are bare-limbed.
I stand at the window
gazing at a world sleeping,
waiting for the season to turn.
The cat
is lying in the sun
by the window.
