The damp creeps in once Raven steals the Sun;

the weeds are battened down. The grey wind

roughs me up with jagged claws and shoulders like

granite peaks.

I retreat to my den and curl up in a corner listening

to the drip-drip-drip. If I don't move soon I'll mildew.

When my grandmother was a little girl her aunt died.

The ground was frozen too stiff to bury her, and

by spring her corpse was blanketed with a forest of mold.