she plants herself in the shadow
of the Wasatch Range—
not that she could still
clamber up the steep
trails to Gobbler’s Knob—
but to recall the clear air
at the tree-line—
and the snow.
Her arid valley holds
everything—two daughters—
one granddaughter—
the Oquirrh Mountains
and what is left
of the Great Salt Lake.
Her kitchen window frames
the sunrise as she rotates
a numbered block each day
in a hand-carved rosewood
calendar on the sill.
In the front room—spread
on calm white walls
and warm maple floors—
a traveler’s colorful treasures.
Deep blue cushions comfort
her thinning form—
her mind still here.
She lives—as always—
for the sunsets—seeking
a panorama—not this
living room’s stingy view—
she wants to blast the bricks
in the northwest corner
for a picture window.
Her hand-woven rug—
pictorial—with one
thin horizontal line—
different from the rest—
that runs from center
to edge—at the end—
an opening out
