By Ethel Paquin
The light through the last of the Maple leaves
has lost its warm golden glow.
The ferns are spectral, the Asters droop,
And I realize summer has gone.
The cord wood’s stacked against the house,
games are brought down from the loft.
They’re old and worn and pieces are missing
but they work if the power goes off.
I hope that it does, but not for too long,
just enough to change how we do things,
so that for a night we sprawl near the hearth
solving who killed Miss White in the kitchen.
So that we tell ghost stories when it gets dark
with the howl of the wind in the eaves,
and laugh at the sandpaper sound of snow
as it brushes the window panes.
Just long enough to give us a glimpse
of what it is like being snowed in.
But not long enough, I’ll freely admit
to find out the pipes have been frozen.