november light is grace—a holy kiss
to wake the weary structures of wood and straw and stone,
illumining worn edges and surface cracks,
consecrating dusty sills with dappled shadows,
flecked with gold.
the cat is a pragmatist—
light to her means spiders floating in gossamer silk
and lizards idly sunning, all fair game for her sharp teeth
and dragon eyes, her pupils a slash of india ink
in the brilliance.