Quebec Summers
The little painter's studio at Tremblant contains a cuisine,
full country as if from my grand-mere new sprung,
Minerva like,
a summer kitchen overlooking the back meadow
which leads down to the creek,
which intervenes between the logging road
and the Riviere des Ouatouais,
and all the jumbled perches of rock
where I alone was king.
The road we took to Tremblant has achieved canonization,
and it's bronze foot glows from pilgrims' thoughts,
St. Pete Beach like,
the winter kitchen with its dog and cat before the fire,
a pan frying green bacon,
which will go on Leonard's lunch sandwich,
as we wait for Gerald and his horse,
bringing mail and a large milk jug
of water from the spring.
--
No comments:
Post a Comment