These white days in the heart of winter
the heat that sustains me is in the warm
grass that cradles my bare feet in
summers past and yet to come.
I think of hopping into the car, not bundled
within layers of warm fabric against the cold,
but hanging loose in shorts and tee.
In the trunk are the makings of a picnic.
On the way, we all know there is a stop
at the little gas station where they sell
fresh curds after eleven on Tuesdays
and Fridays. Bags of them on the counter.
They entwine intimately in sealed bags, pale
squared finger length strips, almost cool
in traces of their slightly salty whey.
We buy two bags: one for the trip,
one for the beach. Rip open the bag and
pass it around. Squeaky sighs of contentment
as each of us chews into the buttery,
slightly salty and yes squeaky wondrous food.
Sometimes I think of poutine: hot gravy over
curds and french fries, and my mouth waters.
But mostly, I think of a bag of curds and a
pitcher of draft beer, bare feet and sunshine.
The voice of the poetriverwriter reads: