St. Vrain Autumn Morning
Soft, the infant alpenglow, morning in the mist,
Wrapped tight against night’s cold hands.
Listen, she hears the subtle splash of tailwalking trout.
Hungry for the slow rise of autumn mayflies.
Her desire to stretch, loosen sleep chilled muscles,
Pump fresh blood and heat from yesterday’s sun.
Her desire for coffee heat and caffeine’s sultry buzz
As sunrise rises flush with Autumn’s promised whisper.
Drowsy, her fertile green eyes open, peer slow
Into a hazy soft sunrise slipping through the window.
Dark tresses undone, she brushes the tangle away.
Time to rise and time to call the fire and iron hot.
Medicine for cold mountain mornings, campfire coffee.
She knows it and slips from the sleeping bag warmth
Into morning light, sub-alpine cold, flint crisp, sharp.
Into sheepskin slippers and a flannel shirt, aged and worn.
Practiced hands build a quick kindling knot and strike fire
Hot on a cast iron grate where aspen and pine flames crackle
Boiling bright metallic water, fresh from St. Vrain Creek
She pours water in blackened pot, more wood on the fire.
The cold bites. She shivers and pulls the old flannel close
Her heat releases his scent: honest sweat and wood smoke,
Old Spice and rye whiskey linger in threads…and laughter.
Remembrance, a slow smile settles on her sleepy face.
The measure of coffee poured, the measure of her own depths
Where once, heat met heat and wet welded two souls as one.
Sad the smile, long in history, long in the cold since he died.
Dark coffee, measured and set to brew, dark memories sigh.
Silence broken by the crack and pop of pitch exploding in fire.
Fragrance, the lingering specters in the morning soft light.
Strong pulses wash through her veins, blood and memories,
Green eyes glow, deep in her belly, long held fire grows.
Low in the dark depths, her woman’s well burns slow
Her slumbering serpent self waits and grumbles hungry
While the sunrise and heat rise and coffee comes to boil
Steaming dark on a St. Vrain Autumn morning.
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