Dolomites in Winter

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The scrape of the plow,

the clang of a shovel on cobblestone,

the slop of wet snow,

the metal tick from walking sticks,

and church bells keeping time

with our fate.

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A curl of chimney smoke against

mountain conifers flocked white,

stone steps lit with beeswax candles,

and old world caroling

by girls dressed like Heidi

ogled by crevassed men in lederhosen

with wrap-around sunglasses.

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Drapey fur coats make me gasp in horror

and jealous lust,

ski boots and tight pants and red noses

and carved wood kiosks selling woolen slippers

and mulled Lagrein,

and open fires grilling porchetta panini.