The boys complain we have no paper towels, but I'm not budging. Wasteful, I say, as they balk at the extra effort a cleanup takes. The temperature is dropping, and I feel my hibernation begin. It's not just an extra layer in the mornings. It's the way I feel myself pulling in, narrowing, keeping close. Yesterday, we brought the oleanders into the garage for the winter. The yard is bare without them. Sometime during the night, the wind overturned the wooden folding table. The cherry tree out front has lost all but a handful of its leaves. I have begun assembling a new book of poems. I am going backward and forward in history.