a poem by Laura Stamps
Mid-November, and the
pinewoods shivers with
autumn, acorns bouncing
their brittle hats upon
the grass, as leaf-lovers
rejoice in the season’s
vivid parade of color.
Trees quiver with cloaks
of blackbirds migrating
to the tropics, thousands
of beaks blending in one
voice, buzzing with an
urgent mission, each day-
light moment gleaming as
precious as gold. Only
the kittens’ mother greets
me now at mealtimes,
eager for breakfast at
eight and dinner at three,
her coat starlessly black.
I’ve named her Jasmine.
Truly, an exotic night-
blooming blossom, a
cat not only addicted to
yogurt but also to me.
The first time I touched
her, she hissed, jumping
away, shocked by the
novelty of human contact.
Today, she allows my hand
to swim the dark river of
her back, drowning in the
deep rapids of a plumed
tail, her paws kneading
dormant grass. Watching
my three cats, dark as
olives, mashing their wet
noses against the sliding
glass door, I suppose it’s
only right that the black
cat among these strays
should be the one to adopt
my home as her own.
Moving from one bowl to
the next, she glows like
an onyx stone, while I
pin silent prayers to a sky
thatched with leafless
limbs, hoping the kittens
rambling within her new
litter might be black.
