She was like the berry red on the bushes against the cold snow
Cook Inlet in the Matanuska-Susitna Valley, Hatcher Pass, George Parks Highway
As the navigation skills of an Iditarod Trail Sled Dog she knew what to do
A red berry on a bush that I knew I shouldn't, couldn't eat but wanted to go
On and on like an Athabaskan who learned to hunt not for sport but to survive
At the window sad and lonely I knew I had a song for the sun and moon and you
In a cabin strumming a six string acoustic guitar with the squalling wind and snow
Wool flannel, bourbon whiskey, wine, fine cognac and she had the gift of fire
I was a park ranger and couldn't see the danger in the miles of smoke she burnt
And I really don't care. I knew she was an actress who had fled the petty mores
Of men that constricted any belief in revival and the ways of a natural survival
I swear in the cities of San Francisco, San Diego, Denver, Pittsburgh and New York
The people in the steeples had the hair on their necks raised when they caught a look
Best of Christmas Roses,
Giovanni Continelli
mystrawhat.com
&
theneweverydaymedia
New Media Madness: an everyday art 2010 - 2011
