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On A Cold Morning (Poem)
Far too frigid too icy too slick
To step foot outside without extreme cause,
So no one gets to try the new recipe,
Not even the neighbor right next door.
Sip hot tea and desultorily play Scrabble,
Beating the bots by far too much.
More street noise than there should be,
And wonder if these cars’ drivers are driven
By necessity, bravado, or stupidity.
Some combination, most likely.
Heart hurts, and miss her miss her miss her.
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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.
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Walking Shiva (Poem)
In the early morning I walk,
The streets still and dark before sunrise,
The thud of footsteps audible as a heart beat,
The plume of breath clouding briefly.
I leave thoughts behind,
No need of them during this short journey,
And carry only grief as silent companion.
A poor substitute indeed, for she would run down the hill,
Fast and lithe as liquid joy, dancing until I caught up.
Grief slows me, this knowledge
That her dying body weighed so heavy.
Perhaps that was just the fall of my heart-
I had thought it hollowed- as it died with her.
I return to the warmth of the apartment,
And I am alone.
