Chateau de Chambord

Loire Valley, 1987

My mother occupies her own light
at the lowest aperture
of winter. She is bundled up,

walking Angel, her Golden—
long dead now—from the carriage-house hotel
where we are staying

toward the black trees
where kings of Europe once hunted.
Thin snow blows

from the monolith of a cooling tower
by the wide frozen river.
The chateau is closing, a last

light or two; my mother calling Angel
in the dark by the trees
where only the snow is not natural.