February 2012 – Colleen Keller Breuning

Coulée de Serrant

I remember Coulée de Serrant
the tempting taste of 1973
never-ending summer days
wandering amber fields
our sun warmed fingers
plucking succulent grapes
sticky and delicious
from bounteous vines
fruit of the valley’s womb.

The finest vintage
decanted into cut glass
its bouquet awakens my senses
sweet honey on my palate
lucid liquid gold
toasting chilled bones
as melting wax drips down
trails of molten lava on
wooden candlesticks.

Autumn harvest looms
as early snow descends
in blankets of white
threatening vineyard yields
their virtue choked by
temperamental terroirs
frozen broken branches
crying out in despair
as empty cellars echo.

Now, nothing remains
of the Coulée de Serrant
in this barren basement
but a hollow jade bottle
haunting memories
the lingering essence
of your saccharine kiss
as I thirst eternally
for you.

Colleen M. Breuning © 2012
February 16, 2012

She Who Dances in Snow

Black velvet drapes of dusk
cloak moss covered hills.
The air exhales its chill
as February blooms beneath
a burgeoning gibbous moon.

Wisps of white crystalline
fall — leaping, swirling,
around glowing streetlights
like vagrant moths
courting open flames.

Here! I am here,
the snow falling around me,
falling down like soothing rain,
manna from heaven,
sweet nectar on my tongue.

Thoughts of grandeur
swell inside my mind,
my heart in relevé,
I dance in the gravel driveway
in a pas de deux with the lamppost.

Mr. Stone is taking out the trash,
dragging his bins to the curbside
on this bitter Tuesday night.
He leans against the western wind,
catching a glimpse of my performance.

I pause from my unabashed reverie,
exclaiming, “Snow! It’s snowing!”
as my new neighbor shakes his head,
pondering his odds, wondering his fate
of landing another loon on the block.

Then, with the delight of a child,
I do cartwheels in the fields of white,
waltzing the night away with Old Man Winter.
Yes, I am that crazy Southern girl,
the belle of the winter ball…

She who dances in snow.