by Paige Becker

Steam rolls along the lake                      like it is any morning at all.

Canadian geese land amongst the reeds. Shotguns                     ring in the                    

distance.

 

The air carries the kind of early sting 

that finally gets its point across.

 

I used to think of grief like fleeced long  pajamas in the summer.

Over top you wear your favorite                        color as though you are not

suffocating.

 

But today it is the first day of true                      fall, the one where you put your sundresses

away and realize that the snow will eventually come.

 

And first I will sit without blankets or socks and drink    

coffee like it is any morning at all.

I wiggle my pink toes and consider last night’s wine glass, its golden       hour colored leftovers begging to be poured down                     the drain.

 

Soon the cold will crawl into the floor, into my   feet, and refuse to leave.

I will stuff these purple appendages inside                                 three pairs of socks 

and boots and walk around on them and bring them

into bed with me where I must keep the socks on to protect my husband from them.