Why do the winter hours seem so lost?
The one and two AM walks in
The dry, cold nights of January,
Contemplating life’s solitary journey.
I remember the piñon wood fires in our Santa Fe adobe,
The kiva hearth where we sat, sipping acrimony with our rum,
Fabricating time for ourselves like moths to flames,
As elusive as silk worms on a tear.
We were artists on the run back then,
Having left behind the NYC lights
For the meditative desert landscapes,
The bluest skies O’Keefe swore could drive one crazy.
(Something about the pigments, the leisurely hues?)
Since neither of us really sketched or painted, we felt safe,
Mired only in the uncanniness of matrimony,
The societal rules we were trying to apply to our us.
Our wedding vows were challenged that year,
As we wept in our separate solitudes.
Me to cheat and wander, you to navigate
The uselessness I’d borrowed on a whim.
So many winter blues have come, gone.
Vast vistas over the decades of masked charades.
As a child I hated winters, hiding behind avalanches
Of fiction rather than play boy hockey.
I told myself I would escape one day.
My valiant compromise: landing me in LA.
But in the end the call to arms too bold, I acquiesced,
Made peace, returned to familiar winter fires.