the first time I missed you

snow falls on Engelberg

(angel mountain)

street outside hotel window 

reading week 1981 

apres ski

narrow streets of ice

quaint alpine village 

mind gravitates to our growing friendship

accumulating

like snow on a street

wondrous white blanket of

knowing and giving

that begins to sparkle our little lives

and project the coming years

of ringed fingers and linked names  

I pick up pen and postcard

and draw a valentine

on this February 14th

Mom at 90

stands at counter in large industrial kitchen

(how many hours of this over the years?)

elbow leaning

on formica surface

cradles large bowl of

sliced potatoes

eggs

cream dressing

mixing with wooden spoon 

half-smiles at camera

one hand leaning

on flower-filled table

green blouse and dark necklace

setting off weathered face

and kind eyes

beauty shining through 

sun through window

haloes white hair and face in profile

turned smiling

resting in the admiring love

of her gathered worlds

Scarlett on crutches

hoop skirts billow out between crutches

as Ashley tells her he cares

but is marrying Melanie

with Rhett listening behind couch 

perfect belle of the ball

hobbled by sprain

cannot swish around dance floor

reduced to a swaying waltz

hanging on to Rhett 

years fly by and still the crutches

carry her across the stage

to the pillars of Tara

where she shoots a Yankee soldier 

and even when she has lost everything

Ashley Melanie Bonny Rhett

the crutches remain

to help her face another day 

there has to be a metaphor

in there

somewhere

Edvard Grieg

arrives early in morning

lightly stepping

through snow on

your unshovelled sidewalk 

his wild white hair

swept back

glows like the snow

when he takes off his wide brimmed hat

in your entrance 

brushes off little icicles

on his Einstein moustache

and then takes off his heavy coat  

you pour cream in his coffee

and he looks at you with

serious eyes

piercing the formality of the moment 

speaks of the whiteness of the world outside

the many shades of white

that never get named 

the white in the shadows is what interests him

the cloudy day whiteness

and the white beneath the branches

moonlight white

and sunrise white 

and as he gives these a voice

you see anew the

wild

swept back world of

winter wonder