The cat sleeps in a stupor of tuneful breezes
loaded with wind chimes and finches’ chat,
waking from time to time to lick a stripe or scratch
a twitch, then spills itself again on Laura’s setee,
too drunk to mind the brawling crows or pounding
from the woodshop where my daughter is making
a dollhouse and sweats as she rasps her plank
or labors with a back saw.
Sometimes she mars the wood and has to start over,
for faith, she learns, weighs more than force
in the art of getting it right, her dream house.
A wren flits back and forth building a nest
in the beams, in the pine-sweet air
where spending oneself is sleep bursting open.
(in What a Light Thing, This Stone)