Dakota Autumn

Alone at the big table she listens

to the lament of November wind

as bones of trees scrape at her window.


When the wind begins its frenzy

down in her own blood

she pours some brandy in her tea


while loud ghosts of children

echo through the dimming lights

of rooms that hold her wedding gifts


like reprimands.  Her husband’s clock

stares back at autumn’s anarchy

ticking she is left, not he, not he


only she and the grieving wind

and the wind has reasons it will not share

tonight when all the walls are whispering.


Aimlessly it blows across the plains

and through the  cold space between the stars:

she and the house a small center lost.


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