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.