The Problem With Leaving a Light On

you have left the light on again 
without meaning to

then the cat jumps up
this allure of unconditional affection

tonight, his silky purr
presents as an offer of comfort;
or perhaps the animal wishes 

to take something from you instead,
the thing you hold close 

he stretches across your flattened, resting body
one paw on your heart
the other feels for your jugular, your blood
you can never be sure

November Story

I feel a chill of late fall. 

Wrapping my sweater snug around my shoulders, I shuffle home kicking pebbles with the tip of my scuffed black and white saddle shoes. 

I have left the town fire hall, where the local girl scout troop meets each Thursday at 4 o’clock. 

Grownup women, other moms, are dedicated to we neighborhood girls.  

Mrs. Carroll shows us how to build tiny houses with glue and popsicle sticks. 

We create greeting cards out of construction paper and dime-store paint. 

I love the feel of applying the brush onto paper, its tiny fibers drawing others in, so they may see how I see. Or maybe they will find a surprise in themselves or the world. 

We sing. We read and talk about nature. We are kind toward each other. 

As I meander home, the nearby creek trickles like wind chimes. 

I wonder if these leaders are as nice to their families as to us. 

The fire siren sounds for the day’s sorrow like a warning. Here comes the night. Your mother will worry, don’t be late, come into safeness. Hurry, gather round, love, or dinner will get cold.