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.