The cat visits my bed and I think of the changing weather

Cassandra Howard

Feeling the muscle above my bone give way
to the weight of her steps up my shin
wakes me to the dark bedroom and her body
moving through it. She stops at my belly, digs
like a farmer uprooting crop from the field.
I reach a hand from the covers, run it across
her back, and loose hairs whirl up like milkweed
seeds as she moves past my head, still heavy
on the pillow, to sit in the screened window. The air
cooled as I slept. Lucid now, I rise on my knees
and turn on the sheets below me, cool and silky
as moist dirt, to look out, the moon at its apogee
according to the almanac, shining on the garden
where radicchio waits to be harvested. Soon I will
collect spinach, squash, and cabbage in the last cool
days of September. I will gather vegetables up
until the ground is covered in snow. Not many nights
are left to scoop the cat from the sill of my open
window and close it on the chilling early morning.