Mt. Katahdin

Wearing a black brown Smokey the Bear,
the ranger said, "Hypothermia,
no further than the Chimney Pond Trail."

The last time the mountain was hot
our honeymoon was the same to the touch
two years ago on the Fourth

when we were two tramps with Robert Frost
at dinner where wine and campfire shined
through a night of slow motion love,

but too soon like snow in October
up on Katahdin between its ribs,
close to the heart, spleen, and stomach

there were stone cold furrowed brows at home,
and "no" more than "yes" on Saturday nights
with nothing much else to say,

and then there came the soliloquies
over tray table frozen dinners
in a one room efficiency apartment

whose old-fashioned fireplace mantel
sported a snow globe of Katahdin
unshaken like a cremation urn.

So here we are "on a date," you say,
our wedding day, the Fourth of July.
The mountain is two more years old.

It's got a mud-time backbone today,
but we have an extra layer of fat
to keep the cold away

and needn't go to the top, you know,
but neither should we have to stop
at the Chimney Pond Trail.