The Constant Downward

I dropped the iron skillet on the floor.

The house gave a shudder, a deep-bellied groan.

It’s the same way the winter comes through the door,

or the way that the marrow feels heavy in bone.

I watched a glass shatter, a slow-motion spill,

and the dust motes descending in shafts of the sun.

Everything wants to be perfectly still

when the business of holding it up is all done.

Even the laundry left limp on the chair

slumps toward the rug in a colorful heap.

It’s a long, patient pulling that’s always been there,

leading us down to the level of sleep.