-This poem reflects on the return of a wool blanket as autumn nights grow colder, where cedar scent, rain at the window, and the instinctive search for warmth mark another household ritual of the season.
The wool blanket leaves the cedar chest,
its red and charcoal squares unfold,
a trace of cedar in the weave,
one burr still fastened near the edge.
All summer, cotton crossed the line
and dried above the garden rows;
now evening gathers at the glass,
and colder air slips through the sash.
We spread it at the foot of bed,
the corners falling to the floor,
while rain begins among the leaves
and silver runs along the pane.
By midnight, one bare foot finds wool,
the house has settled beam by beam,
and from the darkened window frame,
the loosened latch clicks in the wind.