If I could wish the cat well, life
beside my father’s grave,
then as October nears
and the worms go underground,
I could bathe in my favourite season,
happy as I’ll every get,
change the rusty orange of my essence
and shed the density of summer.
If I could wish my children healed of their afflictions,
my husband, complete in his calling
and our empty cooking pot finally appeased,
then I could fall without shifting
the position of my bones,
I could be with a warm coat on, walking briskly
in a purifying seasonal breeze.
