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
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
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.
About the Author
Paige Becker is a contracts attorney who finds herself scribbling poems in the margins of her legal pads. She received a B.A. from the University of Notre Dame and a J.D. from the University of Michigan. She currently resides in Ohio.