The cat is in the window.
It jumps, landing softly on the chartreuse rug,
the ugly thing. 
She slinks away out of sight; 
my eyes remain fixed on the glass.
I’ve always loved when the panes freeze
and are coated in cold white lace,
frost ferns curling 
among tiny shards. 
I’d like the think that they were carved
by small, shining instruments or maybe
painted at night while the living slept. 
But the frost does not exist
for our gaze. 
Reaching out, I press an index finger
to the cold and leave a dot of
melted crystals. 
A shame, they were beautiful.