SOME WINTERS CHAMPLAIN FROZE

always with places
where the ice was
too soft to hold the
cars that flaunted
their metal. Otter
Falls grew thick
crusty beards of ice.
St Mary's against
the salmon sky.
Walking over the
bridge was freezing.
I wanted stories of
my father in a cold
hut in Russia without
radios like ours, only
wind and the chickens.
I wanted a story of
sleeping in straw
with horses' breath
for a fire, of silver
moon, black pines