MONDAY MORNING IN SNOWMASS, COLORADO

The wintered trees shine white in the white sun

Daydreaming of West Indian dawn—,

Of palms that line the bright back of a beach,

The mazy green hem of a paradise

My parents knew as “home” or “here,” conceived

Me there to think their hearth far off

From the Yankee blood in my heart because

Geography is fate and here is mine,

The winter, the nude trees like splintered spears

Souvenired to earth by the fallen

In the promise of coocoo coocoo coooo

And, eventually, again, the stirring

Bloom, and the evergreens down the dirt road,

All one, up the mountain path, towards the sun.