in the old house where
she offered us apple cookies
you forgot you had to
sign the bill, too busy
warming your hands
by the fire (probably
missing her accent too),
you smiled and talked
about snow,
earlier we'd
used the house phone
in the foyer, just barely
free of the biting mountain
cold, to wake her and send
her scurrying to let us in,
she led the way to our room,
a separate building adjacent,
marked by a number 31
tacked to the door,
outside naked grass,
yellowed by winter chills,
covered sloping hills to
the opposite side of route 220,
where, visible through the skeletal
remains of leafless trees,
the white panels of the octagonal wood
buildings surrounding the Jefferson
pools spouted gray steam
high into grayer skies,
flurries just starting to fall.
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