Afterward

Grove Park Inn

The smoke stealing in from the Nantahala wildfire
does not deter the golfers. Across the course
old-money houses steep in sunlight, far enough away
to seem miniature, like they live in a snow globe 
with swirling red and yellow leaves where flakes 
should float and glisten. The gallery windows 
hold space for those both long and recently gone 
to appear—a haze of smoke tends to welcome 
the ones we’ve come to be without. All day 
a garbled memory, waiting for my body to find 
this rocking chair and settle into the next best thing 
to stillness: back and forth, the smoke trembles 
like a compass needle then lifts. It’s upon us again, 
the season to offer greetings to all who have lost 
direction, to be gracious hosts of darkness, 
and this year in particular, to pray for the heavy 
rains to return, and not run for cover when they do.