It was something mundane—
rinsing dinner plates, folding my underwear
into temporarily neat squares, letting the cat out,
when I remembered
the thick spice of crumbling maple leaves
piled high and burning; cinnamon and nutmeg,
woolwash and lanolin wafting from my hands.

You're wearing a soft pumpkin grin, huddled by me
under the groaning red barn,
under my grandma's knitted afghan,
under the silver dollar moon,
jolting at ghost stories, lantern light licking at your
thin mouth, dark hair dusting the cold tapered hands
that I press to the back of my neck in the October night

and I still feel the bones of you there.

What is it worth now?
The dishes need rinsing,
there is laundry to fold,
the cat is crying to be let out.