The rain falls, turns to ice.
In my periphery the knot

in the blinds’ pullstring slinks
down but when I turn I see it

has not moved. Still the afternoon.
Now it’s dark. I have not slept.

The rain keeps my heart wet.
I want to come home soon.

Missed the changing of the leaves.
They’re dead now, waiting

on another season, the one
that beckons bees. I

want to do so much today,
but I haven’t started.

(originally published in Review Americana, Winter 2022)