A Nor’easter blusters tonight. Close your eyes
Trust your ears. Dry leaves and creaking oak limbs
By dawn little dead branches will scatter
Over the turkey mounds. Eight Octobers
Here in this house. Today I counted to see
What seems improbable. How can we have lived here
So long, and still be strangers? There is so little
Of light of weight of shadows, so little in this
Least haunted place by ghosts of us.
No half-heard voices, no whispers of scent – remember
The faint perfume of pipe tobacco in Kansas City?
Remember the face at the window in Pittsburgh?
I wake up, as I often do, and walk through
The midnight hallway, down the stairs to darker rooms
And never once disturb a nightmare. You think
That would warm me to this house. How long
Can this gale blow before a tree comes down?
NOTE: And I blew right through the word limit that I set for everyone. Sorry.