7 p.m.

At dusk

the house is still

except the sound

of silverware on plates

and ice

in tall green glasses.

Outside the wind

lifts branches

of the trees

that line the drive.

A two lane road 

drifts past alone.

There is no path

to wander back

into the past she realizes

as she cuts

the apple pie.

From Autumn Poetry: A Collection for the Season 

Available on Amazon