One Light On

The wind last night,

it found a loose pane

and shook it, a small complaint

in the dark.

And I was back,

a child in a house

too big, too quiet.

One lamp left on,

a yellow island

in the living room.

Every creak of the wood

a step on the stairs,

every scratch of a branch

a hand at the window.

The refrigerator hummed

too loud.

The dark outside was closer then,

a heavy blanket drawn right up

to the glass.

And I was small,

just me, against the world,

holding my breath

for morning.