Coffee Shop.

Place: High River, Alberta
Date: December 27, 2009
Characters: Shelley, Taylor, Kirby

What Christmas means to me.

 

A daughter kissing frost.

And a dead car in the woods.

Stamping symbols into the snow.

And mother-daughter moments.

Mother-son piggybacks.

Exploring.

And group shots.

Son and daughter, with skull.

Letting them make their way.

However long it takes.

Because it is so beautiful.

And quiet.

And to get lost

for two hours

together

in the woods

with the coyote

and grouse

is reason enough to rejoice.

Winter horses.

I stopped for horses in December.

I wrote a poem in November.

November 23, 2009

Coleridge would shudder, but the sun rose

on my morning run down the sanguine dirt road

like Neapolitan ice cream. Dog-less now,

and man-less, too, but some days I can’t help believing

things might just be okay. The geese didn’t stir

from the lake. I watched two coyotes

in the field beside my house

and they watched me back. I keep getting into these

staring contests. Then the horse I like best,

the palomino: we got into it, too.

The legs were working today, despite

months-long self-abuse. You see I am hopeful,

oh woman who ordered me to stop writing

sad poems. A few good runs

and I set momentary sights on a marathon.

And the white-tailed deer today. They broke through

Frank’s fence and kept crossing

the road like the cars of a train —

I lost count. What else. At the post office

ten old farmers corralled

the coffee row table — Hans, Frank, Ron, Jim ...

their monosyllabic names

more familiar to me than friends I once had

in the city. Roger says Coffee, tea or me?

and I say Coffee, but tomorrow.

Today I’m taking my ruddy face home. I’ll skin off

these sopping layers and horde each cup

of the galloping light.

__________________________________________

What will January bring?