Porch Lights

Some balmy night

when all is still

(except, perhaps,

the soft and cadenced

crickets on the lawns)

you’ll see them dotting

darkened doorways;

a lighted map to guide you

down the sleeping streets

and call you to your own.

It’s hard to say

how such a night

could conjure up such

tender thoughts

for fixtures once so

commonplace. You

don’t know how

you never saw

a dim green glow

like a bay-wide beacon;

an amber one like

candlelight.

Traces of day

that someone stole

stipple silent facades

like jewels.

Signs of life

bottled and globed

all whisper if you listen:

Someone is here;

Someone is here…

Welcome home.