Woman, Alone in October

There, in October’s last unraveling,
she coveted the subtle fabric
woven of silver-shot pine.
Across her table, the afternoon
light among lesser lights

until there was a fine threading
like a symphony of leaves underwater.
She wanted to enter the light’s song
as it deepened the dogwood’s blush,
learn the music of the sycamore’s

peeling branches, parting and unparting before her
to know a wiser rhythm: warp of heart’s blood
weft of heart’s sinew:
how they joined, how they might become
a coverlet to warm her.