Tranquility

In the kitchen before dawn,
the cat sings a song
that sounds more like squealing tires
than a plea for beauty, a screeching
soliloquy even my youngest cat
has learned to ignore.
No matter how busy I am,
dashing across the wild
and fertile fields of my day,
something deep within me simply
flows—my spirit, I suppose,
floating on its back, humming
a little, as relaxed as a cat
simmering in a sunny window.
How comforting to know
there is a part of me that remains
unmoved and cannot be scratched
by the friction skittering
through this world.
Darkness before daybreak,
the frost spinning lawns and cars
in its white loom, and my cat
combing the air with her cries,
while a part of me hovers
in its changeless state—
the weight of glory,
the immutability of light.

–Laura Stamps