It is the last year you
will smile with such innocence;
you are noticeably tall for five years old;
teacher called home last week to say
you have been hitting kids in the coat room;
today your mother, distracted by barren pockets
and the three months of life inside her,
forgot to send you to school in costume,
the only unmasked hero in class.

But tonight you fly
among royalty, goblins, clowns,
your orange bag of candy
and kryptonite lights up the night,
red cape like a magic kite
tries to keep up with the force
of late October winds.

I too want to keep up;
I trip over my own shoes,
giggle, happily clumsy.
You turn back, walk bravely
toward me, “Take my hand,”
you say, “I won’t let you fall.”

Later with sweets and cape
tossed out on the living room table,
you looked at me for a long time,
laid your tired arms and head
down on my lap, waited
until it was safe to sleep.

Outside this house
a few crickets still sing out,
their sonnet notes tumble
onto soft, cool backyards,
gentle and round as these hours,
pumpkins rolled down from the patch.

Here we are warm and unmasked
together by the jack o’ lantern fire.
I sit quietly, eyes closing on the petal glow
swelling and bending into the nostalgia
of pumpkin melting into candle wax.

Tonight porch lights
glow into November;
in our slumber we do not hear
the candlelight whisper
into another season.