Four in the morning (Nov 5th, Guy Fawkes’s Day the Admiral would have said)
Sometimes I wake in the night.
I feel pushed up against me
A heavy thick bundle. As anchor?
I move a little. I hear a murmur
Up pops Clary from blankets in distress
from a dream. She hurries over.
Cuddles into my other side
Th three of us are without him.
We feel his absence in the daytime
It was so chilly cold tonight
Without him can I be secure
of warmth? Are the doors locked?
I pull hard to test.
I lay here with them without him.
I feel no one is coming, there’s no threat.
I turn on the light. A new witty book
American dream content
An expensive apartment house
A concierge, characters suggestive
of analogies to this addiction:
While we were watching
I know this is not poetry. Nor is it social verse. But putting this in verse licenses me to say what I need to say.
But the morning before at 7 (Nov 4th):
When I woke this morning to light, not darkness, and I saw a band of soft pink at the bottom of the sky, above it a soft blue and then a white light over all things with the colorful trees, a parasol of dull red-mixture with green in the tree nearest, how much better I felt. A relief. November in Virginia is a beautiful month (in comparison, the old November of my NY childhood dreariness itself)
I am so aware of time and the weather. Throughout his illness I would think how he was missing this weather or that; I daresay it was no more beautiful this past summer than previous ones, this autumn than previous ones.
A woman’s view of autumn, later 19th century: