by Carol Wolrich
She dreams of a living room carpet; the restless
consumer, so much choice, yet nothing lives up
to her hoped-for look of the outdoors, indoors.
She seeks inspiration in the forest, where crisp
leaves crunch under her tread, in syrupy shades
of rose hips and maples; October's abundance.
It's a feast to her hunger; like a vast platter
of fresh cod in batter, graced with golden chips.
She abandons her plans to go shopping.
When her husband returns from work, he finds her
sitting, resplendent, on a shag pile of leaves,
gathered from the generous woods; "well, there
were plenty spare. And we can replace it every
year." She plumps him a bracken chair. As he kicks
off his shoes, the floor scatters everywhere
in a flurry of oak and cherry. Then a grey, bushy
tail pops up in the middle. They seem to have
adopted a squirrel.