Much too early to leave the soft, warm bed.
Six pounds of Siamese cat, however, insists.
Her velvet brown paw taps my lips,
Her purr, like a motorcycle idling,
pushes her message,
“It’s 5:30 a.m, for Bastet’s sake!”

I try to ignore.
I pull the quilt to my face,
I tell the cat, no.
Like me, she persists.

My body responds,
I sneeze, wheeze, like
an aging engine that
struggles to start.
The cat leaps on my belly,
shoves her head
into my hand,
her purr maniacal.

We’re up!
Spouse grouses,
finds his slippers,
shuffles to where
her food is stored.
Like a master weaver,
she intertwines her coffee brown
and latte colored furred body
in and out of his feet.
“Is this what you want?”
he asks the cat as he
shows her “Shrimp Daddy,”
grain free food for cats.
Brown tail straight up,
she leads him to the kitchen.

I pour a glass of juice,
say a few words to
the cat and Spouse,
wander past the
dining room,
past the turquoise
sofa, pull open the
heavy winter curtains,
when a lily-white frozen
garden sprinkled in
sparkling silver glitter—
microscopic flakes of snow—
a magical gift to the eyes,
to the imagination,
greets a day of possibility.

by Charmaine Coimbra