DAYS OF WORDSWORTH | Laura Stamps Eight-thirty on Saturday morning, first week of January, and Savannah stretches in bed after breakfast, three sleeping cats scattered across the quilt like rowboats afloat, as bright sunlight waterfalls across the room. Time slows on days like this whenever she remembers to live from moment to moment, never looking at the future or the past, but only at the present. Savannah sighs, wiggling deeper beneath the quilt. "Saturday mornings are some of the best moments of my life," she purrs, opening her eyes to glimpse cat- tails twitching in dreamland, sunshine flooding the bed, the air littered with glistening petals of peace. Savannah's thoughts drift to the Esbat tonight. Witches call the full moon in January the Cold Moon, but this week sizzles unseasonably warm, daffodils and tulips burst from the ground, while apples and cherries wave pale blossoms at the sun. This time of year reminds Savannah of her favorite poet, William Wordsworth, and his joyous nature poems. She reaches for her purse on the nightstand, drags it across the bed, and rummages through it, searching for the small volume of Wordsworth's Selected Poems she always carries with her. When Savannah grasps it, she notices Re squinting through tired eyes, yawning, and stretching his ivory paws, as if protesting the noise she's making. She carefully cracks the battered old book and thumbs through its yellowed pages until she finds her favorite verse. Flexing tired muscles beneath cool sheets, Savannah turns, propping the open book against a pillow, trying not to disturb her sleeping cats. "Here it is," she murmurs. "Wordsworth's golden daffodils." Re suddenly rises and hops on her hip, walking slowly, then collapsing, his head resting upon her neck. "Perfect," Savannah says, touching her cheek to his creamy paw, returning to Wordsworth's enchanted verse.