Santa Fe north to the Sangre de Cristo Mountains,
green copper roof bounced
between Thomas Mann and Yukio Mishima,
smoke hangs low over new fallen snow
beyond the window’s patina.
While our children and theirs
are at it deep and steep skiing, precocious
robins tight on juniper berries -- stunned
by a pane of glass -- crash off
the sauna where I angle to nest
between unblemished breasts that fed
our children. Wife now gift-wrapped in red
and emerald takes in my stout root
which seasoned wood twists
ten thousand waves as ten thousand candles flicker.