“Soft like icey cream,” I tell him
referring to the way his fur splits,
like in that commercial for Breyers
where they pull the scoop through
layers of chocolate. I pet him
and his fur scatters the air. Yesterday,
my daughter (his mother) brushed him
and could have created another cat 
from the fur he shed. That old coat, 
the layer that shields against cold 
but bears down oppressive in the heat,
served its purpose – bless and release,
they say, and he’s here before breakfast –
light as a feather. He, and I, and the pen
flying across my journal are the only
lively things ahead of the sun. The birds
start in but he watches me, bumps
my hand with his head and suggests
with a genteel paw that my phone charger
would be better off on the floor. His
deep purr is a coo of grief. He has come
to bear witness. I believe he knows
I am ending my own winter as well,
that I, too, have things to shed.