That Night

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That night 

on that late eve in autumn the porch light was bright

barefoot small standing on the wood slats that night

she stood near the swing clutching the heavy cold chain

fled the strange broken faces, that house pulsing pain

she stood in the gold illume - the only thing as before

until that wavered as flame, flashed and life was no more

“the porch light is dead” – she called reedy voice small

but no one came – no one but night – no one at all

and night fell as a solid raining of impossible things 
dismembered chunks of blackbird broken wings

banging her head, brushing cheeks, those cold feet bare

she a small night-gowned figure alone waiting there

in a moment sure that someone would as always - arise

quick steps would come arms lift her with sleepy sighs

“the porch light is dead” she called into the night   

only the rasp of dead feathers drifted ebon unright

as she stood shock still and watched normal take flight

born of wings fallen, now gathered, dread flying free

as a cat now with clear visioned eyes she could see

that nothing would ever return- ever- as it was meant to be