It’s raining and autumn. Outside
everything dark crushes color
with blows of wind and branches.
The perfect setting for a day
inside with wool & wine, and seclusion—
that desired kind.
I’ve learned the plucks of a banjo
can rhythm the scratch of tree limbs.
A light Béla Fleck—soft haphazardness,
the soundtrack for fall and forgetting.
Only a squirrel—the culprit of a rasping,
a sound closer to pines scraping
house shingles, painted wood siding—
grips the window screen, scuttles
to the pane, back and up, clings
to the mesh with vampire-like claws.
A voyeur wanting in
in the worst way.
I know the act of clinging
has no scent, no sound—it’s static,
but still this house reeks of dead fruit: pears
spotted and moldy, fuzzed to their stems.
Is it a law of nature that everything
empty must fill again?
All week, I packed and sealed,
stuffed suits into bags but folded
the towels I’d later unfold, wrap around
my clean arms and shoulders.
A temporary comfort, like wool & merlot
and that myth of solitude.