By Barbara Swift Brauer
Bad enough she couldn’t keep him home.
Bad enough the bed was wider every time he left.
When he brought his work home —
the bright mountains, the river canyons
flush with spring’s snow melt —
she rearranged the guest room
moved the winter clothes
from the second closet, to make space.
The mountains kept arriving.
The alpine lakes left a chill
in every room. No amount
of vacuuming could quite remove
the trail dust from the carpet.
The trout flipping from tub
to bathroom sink, streams
incessantly flowing,
under the family room door.
Each evening, the alpenglow
lighting the living room walls.
Barbara Swift Brauer is the author of two poetry collections from Sixteen Rivers Press: Rain, Like a Thief (2019) and At Ease in the Borrowed World (2013). A freelance writer and editor, she lives in San Geronimo, California.
