In this mountain town
we escape into fake real life
under rundle rocks and worm dirt,
over somebody else’s grandma’s vintage dress shirt.
Slouchy toques and mukluks
lounge in this cool crowd as they
sip tea, watch music, clap politely,
in choreographed abandon.
Gaze starry-eyed at the full moon perched
on the peak of the middle Sister,
hug everybody meaninglessly all the time,
awkwardly warm and stiff.
Capture fragrant distasteful puffs of reality,
plug nose and open ears to a happy banjo!
eyes to a blog about mountain themed knitting.
Generate a meaningful tattoo from the Internet.
Full social media points
when skin is lost completely.
Buy a four hundred and fifty thousand dollar “manufactured home”,
a trailer with a basement and a hot tub.
A garden of rocks and wasps.
Utility right-of-way sits on the fence,
while voices call before they dig.
Children are escorted by busy, guilty parents in Chariots
complete with shocks and brake pads by moms,
running ultra mountain marathons wearing makeup they deny.
Dads fade away slowly on distant treks,
straight up from outside their front door.
In this town,
balanced on the gate of the Canadian Rockies
every picture is a postcard.
Silent breathless blanket
greets my surprised sleepy eyes,
as I leave the sidewalk and light behind
to find the way unsettled.
The vast moon shimmers
reflected from the Three Sisters
lost in the glitter full ground
Alive! Underneath my black winter boots.
Shadows escape depth perception,
solid forms melt away laughing.
Was that tree always where it appears now,
deviously hiding it’s frozen roots under powder?
I’m sure it will have moved this time tomorrow.
My boots weave their way
to the light of a bridge and cross over.
Relieved and weary I merge with other snowprints,
from a moment darker than mine
soon diluted by throbbing sober daylight.
His confident treaded boots weave masterfully close
to her treacherous exclamation point
She slips and I wonder
about the power of a party to transform
the innocent into fearless mountain trolls.
When I reach the place where he saves her
in a whirling drunken pile of prints,
I can’t help but giggle, what a Hero!
They dared claim ownership over this valley
with a dress coat and suit,
lost in each others joyful insignificance.
Alone again, smiling
on this ordinary,
extraordinary walk to work.
It had just snowed and I was in awe at my surroundings as I took the shortcut to work at 6am to cook breakfast for hungover Sunday Funday locals. I followed those footprints lit up by the full moon reflected off the mountains. Seriously though, who walks gravel trails with heels? Mountain girls that’s who! It is still my funnest memory of my morning commute.