A poem a day, that’s all I ask
Chateau de Chambord
My mother occupies her own light
at the lowest aperture
of winter. She is bundled up,
walking Angel, her Golden—
long dead now—from the carriage-house hotel
where we are staying
toward the black trees
where kings of Europe once hunted.
Thin snow blows
from the monolith of a cooling tower
by the wide frozen river.
The chateau is closing, a last
light or two; my mother calling Angel
in the dark by the trees
where only the snow is not natural.
Beautiful Monsters
Pecan Grove Press