snow drifting over a cabin roof
in the mountains, enough stacked wood
and meat to last a week, alone at last
in our rented A-frame, isolated,
without power, high in the San Juan.
Our children are safe as they'll ever be
seeking their fortunes in cities,
our desk and calendar clear, our debts
paid until summer. The smoke of pinon
seeps back inside under almost invisible
cracks, the better to smell it. All day
we take turns holding hands and counting
the years we never believed we'd make it -
the hours of skinned knees and pleading,
diapers and teenage rage and fever
in the middle of the night, and parents
dying, and Saigon, the endless guilt
of surviving. Nights we lie touching
for hours and listen, the silent woods
so close we can hear owls diving.
These woods are not our woods,
though we hold a key to dead pine planks
laid side by side, shiplap like a dream
that lasts, a double bed that fits us
after all these years, a blunt
front-feeding stove that gives back
temporary heat for all the logs we own.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
by Walter McDonald, 1989
