of another day

she snaps them
clean white sheets
the room’s heavy window is propped open and outside autumn has begun to whisper
the bed is high and she must step onto a small bed stool to reach the far corner
to press the cotton smooth
to fold the edges under
she imagines this bed differently
in candlelight
soft and etched in his shadow
but the leaves keep turning colors
as time slowly creases her skin
and these days will pass in routine
like pinning clothes in the wind
like winter’s howl and hot wooden stoves
like sweet biscuits and gravy and warm mugs of cocoa
all her desires swept through the window of seasons
her hidden aches knitted quietly into the seams of each winter quilt


October 2010
nsj