I New Orleans
The blues the man plays
Are like the early flowers
At the end of our walk —
And eternally sad.
II Lake George
The lake was exquisitely cold.
The day unbearably hot.
The water like crystal. And you,
A memory, a promise.
The night in the upper boxes smelled of sulfur
From homerun fireworks exploding at eye level
Then hanging above the field like gray clouds
Because no wind would push them over the lake.
The incredible silence of snow
Beneath the pine and birches. Only the whispering
Skis telling secrets to the groomed surface
And you disappearing ahead where the trail turns.
A premonition. A secret fear.
Dispelled an hour later at a table
Looking out over the sun glossed ice of the lake.
Originally published in A Matter of Mind, Foothills Publishing, 2004.
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