My cat demands 
an open window. It’s
spring, she insists. 

I tell her she’s right
but she’s missing
the cold point that today

is not especially warm
despite the date 
and the recent equinox.

She herself is not especially warm;
her fondness for me
seems purely transactional

much of the time; true,
there are moments when her purring
as she lies there in the sun 

might betray affection unaffected
by treats given or favors granted,
but I never can tell for sure.

Maybe those times are payment
into a bank of future work
on her behalf.

Maybe she understands
how desperate I am
to hear it

in these up and down days
of early spring when cold
is still as much a presence here

as it has been for months
and years. Maybe 
she’s just hedging a bet.