Had I not migrated
to this rural Utah
mountain-valley
where the alpenglow shimmers
over snowy peaks, where canyon
trails wend through sagebrush and pine,
where ravens perch
on quaking aspen boughs
and deer trek
across the homestead
from winding stream
to vibrant garden, where
mornings I tromp
through snowdrifts
in leather work boots
and rugged wool socks,
I would still be dashing
along sidewalks, climbing
subway stairs in sturdy
black shoes, standing
in stocking feet on stained
squares of cardboard
while émigré cobblers repair
heels and soles in fusty
holes-in-the-wall. I’d still
be exploring botany, birding,
backpacking in the main branch
of the NY Public Library
with its tiny elevators that lift
books from closed stacks
into radiant light.
An educator and editor, Felicia Rose has published in various journals including The Westchester Review, The Sun (Readers Write), Mother Earth News, and Mr. Beller’s Neighborhood. She divides her time between an uncool neighborhood in Brooklyn and a small town in the Adirondack Foothills.
