Out of the sapphire shadows he creeps,
by Mary Naylor
and into the dead of night he seeps.
In his prison grays, hiding from the light
of day, they call him, 'Bandit.'
He never walks, he stalks.
As the sun sinks, he prepares to slink,
through your open window.
Better beware. He'll find you
and your brightest treasures, too.
There's no escape from Bandit.
Suddenly, he prances and dances;
he flounces and bounces;
he pounces into your heart, unannounced.
Like a soft furry gray glove,
he scoops up and steals your love,
because, he's a bandit!
A few years ago I found two tiny, abandoned kittens under my mobile home. My daughter and I fed them from tiny nursing bottles and eyedroppers. One my daughter named Sapphire and the other Shadow. These are the sapphire shadows from which my poem crept.'