Indian Summer Night
I put on my long, pale pink and white calico nightie …
the flouncy one that comes just beneath my knees,
done-up with lacy straps and teensy button-border
at the bustling bustline. I forgot to do a chore,
so I steer the huge, brown garbage can
all the way down the windy steep driveway,
traversing like I do on the ski slopes from side to side to avoid a spill
due to weight, downhill along the drive path, rocks and boulders
on one side, blue spruce, oaks and aspens on the other
under an inkpad of sky, polka-dotted starry, starry night.
Back in the kitchen; I watch the baked pasta
burble and boil in the oven, then start to dance my way outside
to the porch where I give a college cheerleader cry …
mon Dieu! What’s this music in my head?
Oh, Toulouse, mon amour, if only you were still alive
and I still your cher, cherie can-can dancer in the Moulin Rouge!
Temperate Season in Utah
It’s the dawn of a memory
when you awaken into early autumn,
step from pajamas into a travel morning.
You open the porch door to a potage of weather,
where glittery spindled Rorschach
flakes, ruddled on the hillside’s mud,
speak to you of a brown, down jacket with a hood.
You drink another cup of black coffee,
bitter and a bit tarry, like last night’s
memories of wrangling. You step into
hand-stitched, tool-crafted Mexican boots
and over to the coral you saunter.
You saddle and mount a dappled pony you call
Señor Pedro for his lofty airs; watch him try to catch
a mouthful of snow, the white scattering fluff
cottoning sky and air all around.
You ride off in the direction of Heber Valley,
passing bales of covered hay, knowing its summer
scent, still sweet if only in memory.
Over by the cabin and water trough, awaits the tractor,
and you and the pony understand you’re
anachronistic fools, out of sync with time and methods,
archaic, antiquated but all the same, riding toward the now.
Who knows or cares about the future?