Angel Fire, New Mexico
August 2020
we landed here
a reprieve
from Arizona heat
from reminders
of a house needing
paint and spackle
and a yard drowning in sun
a reprieve
from streaming news
that won’t run off our backs
but burrows deep
like bullets fired
by malicious hands
at Monte Verde Lake
we sit watching
the afternoon sun
sparkle on the water
aware of the sudden
lift off of crackling crows
from their green perches
in the distance
a chainsaw
prepares wood for winter
we walk
on winding trails
through pristine forests
deep shade
cools our faces
and from treetops
a wind-whoosh concert
in piney-freshness
the chaos of the world
slips off our shoulders
Tenderness
season grows cold
we meet at the hearth tonight
me with Chardonnay
you a bottle of stout
your arms are crossed
your eyes cast down
in the cinders of longing
the taste of your lips denied
love and loss
in tenderness entwine
stoic stone
no golden moon tonight
Passing down Recipes
I don’t remember my mother
like you remember yours, with a wooden
spoon caked with dough on its way
to becoming banana bread.
My mother owned no apron, wore mannish
pants. Deep pockets to carry a Swiss
army knife, a scout’s kerchief to keep
the sun off her neck on summer hikes.
She wore no pleasing girly smile. Her
eyes trained on distant lands, on high
and higher peaks. Her boots held dust
and dirt from trail to trail.
She didn’t pass down recipes,
hand-written on ruled paper,
shook salt and pepper, unmeasured,
into stews and soups.
Her specialty was foraging for chanterelles
to make a Wild Mushroom Tartine,
a dish she first tasted tramping
the wild Pyrenees.
Up and down mountains I followed
in her footsteps as far as my legs
could carry me. Each year a little further,
until one day she lagged behind.
I hiked on while she began to dissent
looking over her shoulder,
a satisfied smile beaming back at me.