In November she knits quietly
says shit when things go wrong
notices wind scattering
ashes—fine dust
On stone hearth.

She weaves purple
rabbits into child’s sweater
with tails that stick out
and make her laugh.

I walk with the dogs
down to the lake shaking
leaves off spindly birches
telling Mooky how absurd
the quiet is:

empty summer cottages
rowboats on saw horses
docks on beaches

I try not to think
of winter coming — dotted
by ice houses and pickup trucks;
there being something sacred today
in our cold and white-capped uselessness.

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