Settlement

The wood is pulling away from the bone of the house,

a slow retreat since the temperature fell.

I lie here watching a dust-colored moth

trying to force its way into the hall.

It beats its wings against the white-painted wood,

blind to the slice of yellow light on the floor.

There is a sliver of space where the latch should hold,

a failure of hardware, a fault in the door.

The draft smells like frost and wet garden soil,

whistling through the space that wasn't there in July.

I could get up and shove a towel in the crack,

but I’d rather just watch the moth try and try.