Winter, 1991

My first winter here we had a blizzard,

With snow so deep that doors wouldn’t open

And snowplows quickly gave up.

I was no novice to such weather but still

I leaned my head against the icy window

And wished myself back in a warmer clime.

I did not love the mountains yet, nor this small rural town

With its strange ways and stranger folk.

This was unfamiliar in every sense, and I longed

For the soft cadence of a French-tinged voice,

The welcome of a cup of cafe au lait, and the offer of buttermilk pie.