Softness

Softness brushes the glass pane, steadily patting at the window with delicate plush soles, the kind that make intricate embroidery patterns on freshly fallen snow, but no sounds, no sounds at all, ever.

Showing up from thin air in response to a thought, it unravels unhurried on the front porch, a humming russet and gray puzzle watching the world through amber colored lenses.

Her inquisitive temperament nuzzles my spirit with the trusty innocence of new life, in hope of comfort, protection and sheltered playfulness, while its being wraps itself around my ankles in physically impossible ways for no reason at all, just to amuse itself, undulating with the unrestricted sweeps of water, twining my feet in a live kinetic bind.

She gazes into the distance, with wisdom unknown, seeing more than I, or at least seeming it does, then quietly draws furry curtains over the glowing ambers of her soul.

Play simmers down like the end of a dance while shiny wisps of gray and brown are still stirred by the lightest breath. She curls up in my lap oblivious to want and care, a living pillow filled with meows winding itself in progressively tighter circles like the spring of a clock, and I don't know anymore where softness ends and where I begin.