Hallowe’en visit —

King T’Challa

changes the game

giving up and in
not minding when a cold wind
undoes me again

wind taking the turn

around the corner too fast —

songs of my childhood

a runaway dog

takes a break to bark at us —

even the rain stops

mail-in ballot —

I find your old love letters

and vote for you again

colder days —
finding old lozenges
in my coat pocket

finally cold

we make room on the couch for

all this attraction

a fox jumped, then pounced —

such breathtaking precision!

just as we passed by

sweeping our walkway

I lose track for looking up —

clouds and the moon

seeing the rain’s edge
yet unable to stay dry —
more fatherless days

a sharp crack

as an acorn hits the pavement —

even the squirrel jumps

Pine, Maple, Linden —

we walk home through the tree streets,

leaves letting go

a gentle dampness

in the curls at your neck —

knowing just how that feels

cold sinking down

where no layers seem to reach

deep in the marrow

space between crickets —

we move to shield each other

from the growing cold

the sound of her loom —

squirrels digging holes and still

trusting memory

an owl’s single note

knitting up my fitful sleep —

cold October night

he lost his accent

except when he was counting —

front entry stairs

a limping deer

trying to outrun its pain —

we look away

words snagging

on the jagged edge of loss  —

past tense caught in my throat

words snagging

on the jagged edge of loss  —

past tense caught in my throat

coyote moon —

only self-imposed silence

keeps us from howling

I barely saw it —

just after the whoosh of wings

a bird-shaped hole

acorns underfoot

and the sounds of squirrels chiding:

we were saving those!

tiny grey-brown mouse —

I coax the other women

down off their chairs

the name of the star

whose light keeps you on course —

whisper it to me

we will dance again —

whose turn is it

to believe?

chasing good sailing —

in the leaves and whitecaps

we watch for the wind

we keep the dead tree

because the birds gather there —

stories of my father

days full of sighing —

no matter which way I turn

grief is there, waiting

a ten-point buck

fading back into the field

without a rustle

translucent silk —

I carried her to safety

by that single thread